Imagine this scenario, if you would:
You are alone in your home. It’s nighttime, the electricity has gone out, and the phone line is no longer working. You hear a low guttural moan from just outside your front door as a loud pounding sound resonates, as if someone or something was trying to force its way inside your home. What do you do?
If you’re like most Americans, you’d probably freak out. And that’s totally understandable. Some blood-crazed creature banging on your door in the middle of the night can be down right scary. But I’m here to tell you not to worry. That noise is merely the walking dead threatening to break down your door and rend your flesh to eat you alive.
Seriously, it could be worse. It could be Carrot Top going door to door trying to sell you sex toys. Or it could be Janet Reno demanding entrance because she’s convinced there’s a Cuban boy stuffed in your closet. Or it could be Gay Hitler. Honestly, a flesh eating zombie has to be the least of your worries.
Still, this is something you should probably be concerned about. Zombies are real, they are a serious threat, and if left unchecked, a zombie apocalypse may very well be in our near future. I would know. Hunting down and killing zombies is a bit of a hobby of mine.
Wait. Is that the right word? Kill? Zombies are already dead, so technically speaking, you can’t kill them again. De-zombify? De-animate? No, you can’t reverse the process, so those terms wouldn't be accurate. Slaughter? Butcher? Obliterate? No, I don’t see myself using those words in everyday conversation. End? Ok, I guess that’s as good as anything else.
Hunting down and ending zombies is a bit of a hobby of mine. In fact, I’ve been studying and developing fighting methods and battle strategies geared exclusively at dealing with zombies. This includes ballistic assaults as well as good ol’ fashioned melee combat abilities. I’ve even gone so far as to conceive a bare-fisted method for taking down zombies quickly and efficiently. My signature attack is a singular punch to the zombie’s head, which strikes with such ferocity that it liquefies the brains inside the fiendish creature’s skull. And if the bone making up the skull is decayed enough, the mash of brains can even be ejected out the other side of its head! Oh, it's more than satisfying, let me assure you.
Unfortunately, martial arts officials have refused to acknowledge my new fighting style, just because they’ve never seen it in action against a real live zombie. Coincidentally, the same move that will liquefy a zombie’s brains in one hit, won’t be nearly as lethal when preformed on a still living and breathing human. They even refuse to give my fighting style a proper name. I could call it, Fist of Zombie Ruin... or Punch of De-zombification… or maybe even, My Fist to Your Face Technique.
The naming thing is still a work in progress. Apparently I’m not very good with words. The important point to take away here, is that if all else fails, hand to hand combat can be an effective way to battle the walking dead.
Case in point: I once saw Chuck Norris round house kick a zombie in the face. The force of the kick knocked the zombie’s head off and caused it to fly backwards. It crashed into the head of another zombie, ending both instantly due to the sheer strength of the collision. In addition to that, the energy of the impact caused a localized shock wave, which, after erupting, created a vacuum within a twelve foot radius. The three additional zombies standing within that radius had their brains sucked out of the ears by that vacuum and collapsed on the ground, withering and clawing for several minutes before their brain activity and motor skills ceased functioning for good.
I’m not afraid to admit that I am not half as badass as Chuck Norris is.
Now I hope you’re smart enough to realize that fighting zombies with your bare hands is not advisable, even in the worst conditions. The more savvy readers out there have more than likely already purchased a copy of The Zombie Survival Guide, by Max Brooks, and are hopefully beginning to compile their own zombie survival supplies. The book does a much more thorough job than I ever could of cataloging all of the weapons you could possibly use to fight the walking dead.
One thing the Survival Guide lacks, however, is information on zombie repellent powder. I am currently developing and testing a nontoxic powder that when applied to a human in sufficient quantities will keep zombies at bay. Just like a bad cologne, it will keep other beings from wanting to touch you in any way. Now there are still a few kinks to be worked out before I’m ready to market this wonder product, but keep an eye out for it at your local sporting goods store.
Speaking of which, why don’t more sporting good stores and gun shops have a specific “zombie survival” section? I think they’re missing an incredible opportunity to target the niche part of the population that actively worries about zombie infestation. Putting all the necessary zombie survival supplies in one area would instantly increase sales, but it will also serve to help educate and inform the general populace on what are the best items to purchase for such an epidemic.
I think this needs to be remedied. In fact, I think we can go a step further… I hereby propose an entire product line designed specifically for avoiding, fighting, and surviving the worst case scenario of a zombie outbreak. Look for Z END gear, equipment, weapons, and survival supplies coming to a store near you. When you see the Z END logo, you know you’re getting high quality, weapons grade materiel. You know that I am serious and very committed to providing my customers with the most outstanding, the longest lasting, and the most efficient zombie destroying goods known to man. That is my pledge to you.
“Survive the zombie apocalypse. Survive until the end. Z END.”
You know. I might want to hire a marketing firm to help me with that. Once I finalize and patent my zombie repellent powder, I’ll focus on building Z END into the power brand that I know it can be. I mean, who wouldn’t want a Z END anti-zombie pistol? Or a Z END Shaolin Spade? Or even some Z END zombie-proof dehydrated rations? The possibilities are limitless.
So just remember: the next time you hear the sound of the relentless undead banging on your door, you have nothing to fear! Just strap on your Z END combat knife, grab your Z END survival bag (with Z END sleep bag, Z END flashlight, Z END map and compass set, and Z END toothbrush) and get ready to hit the road towards your mountain retreat/safe house. Yes, you can survive the zombie menace, but only with Z END!
Showing posts with label random. Show all posts
Showing posts with label random. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Friend Find, Look Behind
So my friend Anthony is coming over to visit next week. I would say I’m ecstatic to see him. I would also say that it’ll be great catching up on old times since I haven’t had the chance to hang out with him in quite a long while. I would say all that, but let’s be honest, him being here is going to cut in on my Hugh Hefner style parties of which I’m quite renowned. Well, if you take “quite renowned” to mean, “these parties don’t actually exist,” then you’d be correct.
Aside from missing my nonexistent parties, it’s going to be hard to get used to living with someone again, even if it’s only for two weeks. For starters, I’m probably going to have to start wearing pants more often. I hear that’s what the civilized folks are doing these days. Stupid pants are totally overrated. I never really did have much use for them.
Honestly though, I am looking forward to hanging out with Anthony again. He’s a really cool guy, even if he does spend most of his time making fun of me and belittling my lifestyle. That’s ok though, he’s a year older than me so with all the negative comments, he really sounds a lot like my older brother. What can I say? Anthony is pretty much like family to me.
He’ll be here this coming Monday. So this weekend, which will most likely be busy in its own right, I’ll have to make some time to clean out the bathroom, which will most likely require an industrial sized cask of bleach to finish. It’s been a while. Then I’ll have to clean out the dirty dishes in the sink, something I avoid doing almost as much as I avoid meaningful relationships. I should probably also pick up all of the dirty clothes scattered throughout my apartment. I’m not entirely sure why or how I got a pair of used boxers on top of the entertainment center in the living room… but I’m pretty sure they need to be removed. Eh, I’ll get around to it eventually.
Anthony’s coming into town so he can do a stint at teaching Drivers Ed, which apparently pays well when you’re used to a public high school teacher’s salary like he is. Not sure if I could teach public high school myself. I mean, my mother does it, and she seems to do just fine, but I don’t exactly have the attention span for it myself. I’d probably feel the need to physically abuse my students, because well, they’re high schoolers, and high school kids are by definition stupid. Hey I was there once, I remember what I was like.
That’s not to say that I wasn’t an idiot in high school myself. I was. In fact, I’m still an idiot now. But that’s okay, I’ve come to terms with that. I’ve also had some minor success in being able to hide my latent idiocy from a select portion of the female population. Honestly, there are some girls out there who actually enjoy being in my company. I don’t exactly understand it, it does have a tendency to baffle the mind. But hey, I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when she’s got boobs that I could be staring at instead.
But back to the matter at hand. I have approximately eleven days (or somewhere close to that) where I will once again be sharing my living quarters with a roommate. Now this shouldn’t be much of a problem seeing as how I lived with Anthony for two years while in college. But those were different days. Back then I drank obsessively, did my best to piss off women, and played excessive amounts of Nintendo. Huh, come to think of it, that really isn’t much different than what I do now.
Ok, so maybe I’m still the same in many respects, but I have gotten used to living all on my lonesome these past 18 months or so. Having to share a bathroom (not to mention the hot water) isn’t something I’ve been comfortable with in a long, long time. It shouldn’t be too hard to cope with, I mean, I did grow up with an older brother, how could Anthony be any worse? At least I won’t have to go hiding the cold root beer in the vegetable crisper just so he won’t drink the last one. Yeah, I had to resort to the friggin vegetable cripser so I could actually have a refreshing beverage when I wanted it. It may have been tough growing up at times, but I adapted. I did survive.
Now I’m not here to say that my brother was a mean overlord during my childhood, or that Anthony was an overbearing fraternity brother, because they most certainly were not. I have used a literary device called hyperbole, which is a gross exaggeration used in this case to promote humor. And now that I’ve explained it, I’ve killed the joke. Seriously though, I did hide bottles of IBC Root Beer and even some Cherry Coke in the vegetable crisper to keep them from my brother. He always drank the last bottle and never bothered to restock the fridge. He’s just an ass like that.
So, like I said before, I’m really looking forward to seeing my friend Anthony again. I’m not exactly sure why though. I mean, after going over everything above, why should I be excited? It might have something to do with the fact that whenever I get together with old college buddies we end up drinking, a lot. Not that I need to hang out with old friends to drink, because I certainly don’t. But I’m always up for an excuse for more alcohol. I just have to figure out who’s going to be the designated driver. Well, I could try to convince Anthony’s girlfriend to come over too. She has some practical experience driving our worthless drunken behinds around all night.
Oh, and for those of you not keeping track, the new Transformers Movie comes out in less than a month. Four weeks from today, to be precise. I firmly believe that it is my civic duty to remind you of that each and every week. In celebration of the 1980’s greatest franchise (and quite possibly the greatest franchise of all time), I’m going to leave you with a quote each week. I’m sure that the more astute of you dear readers out there will recognize these quotes immediate. For those of you who don’t, well let’s just say that I find you lacking in your education.
“Listen Ironhide, we don’t have enough energon cubes to power a full scale assault. Ready the shuttle for launch!… Now all we need is a little energon and a lot of luck.”
-Optimus Prime
Aside from missing my nonexistent parties, it’s going to be hard to get used to living with someone again, even if it’s only for two weeks. For starters, I’m probably going to have to start wearing pants more often. I hear that’s what the civilized folks are doing these days. Stupid pants are totally overrated. I never really did have much use for them.
Honestly though, I am looking forward to hanging out with Anthony again. He’s a really cool guy, even if he does spend most of his time making fun of me and belittling my lifestyle. That’s ok though, he’s a year older than me so with all the negative comments, he really sounds a lot like my older brother. What can I say? Anthony is pretty much like family to me.
He’ll be here this coming Monday. So this weekend, which will most likely be busy in its own right, I’ll have to make some time to clean out the bathroom, which will most likely require an industrial sized cask of bleach to finish. It’s been a while. Then I’ll have to clean out the dirty dishes in the sink, something I avoid doing almost as much as I avoid meaningful relationships. I should probably also pick up all of the dirty clothes scattered throughout my apartment. I’m not entirely sure why or how I got a pair of used boxers on top of the entertainment center in the living room… but I’m pretty sure they need to be removed. Eh, I’ll get around to it eventually.
Anthony’s coming into town so he can do a stint at teaching Drivers Ed, which apparently pays well when you’re used to a public high school teacher’s salary like he is. Not sure if I could teach public high school myself. I mean, my mother does it, and she seems to do just fine, but I don’t exactly have the attention span for it myself. I’d probably feel the need to physically abuse my students, because well, they’re high schoolers, and high school kids are by definition stupid. Hey I was there once, I remember what I was like.
That’s not to say that I wasn’t an idiot in high school myself. I was. In fact, I’m still an idiot now. But that’s okay, I’ve come to terms with that. I’ve also had some minor success in being able to hide my latent idiocy from a select portion of the female population. Honestly, there are some girls out there who actually enjoy being in my company. I don’t exactly understand it, it does have a tendency to baffle the mind. But hey, I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when she’s got boobs that I could be staring at instead.
But back to the matter at hand. I have approximately eleven days (or somewhere close to that) where I will once again be sharing my living quarters with a roommate. Now this shouldn’t be much of a problem seeing as how I lived with Anthony for two years while in college. But those were different days. Back then I drank obsessively, did my best to piss off women, and played excessive amounts of Nintendo. Huh, come to think of it, that really isn’t much different than what I do now.
Ok, so maybe I’m still the same in many respects, but I have gotten used to living all on my lonesome these past 18 months or so. Having to share a bathroom (not to mention the hot water) isn’t something I’ve been comfortable with in a long, long time. It shouldn’t be too hard to cope with, I mean, I did grow up with an older brother, how could Anthony be any worse? At least I won’t have to go hiding the cold root beer in the vegetable crisper just so he won’t drink the last one. Yeah, I had to resort to the friggin vegetable cripser so I could actually have a refreshing beverage when I wanted it. It may have been tough growing up at times, but I adapted. I did survive.
Now I’m not here to say that my brother was a mean overlord during my childhood, or that Anthony was an overbearing fraternity brother, because they most certainly were not. I have used a literary device called hyperbole, which is a gross exaggeration used in this case to promote humor. And now that I’ve explained it, I’ve killed the joke. Seriously though, I did hide bottles of IBC Root Beer and even some Cherry Coke in the vegetable crisper to keep them from my brother. He always drank the last bottle and never bothered to restock the fridge. He’s just an ass like that.
So, like I said before, I’m really looking forward to seeing my friend Anthony again. I’m not exactly sure why though. I mean, after going over everything above, why should I be excited? It might have something to do with the fact that whenever I get together with old college buddies we end up drinking, a lot. Not that I need to hang out with old friends to drink, because I certainly don’t. But I’m always up for an excuse for more alcohol. I just have to figure out who’s going to be the designated driver. Well, I could try to convince Anthony’s girlfriend to come over too. She has some practical experience driving our worthless drunken behinds around all night.
Oh, and for those of you not keeping track, the new Transformers Movie comes out in less than a month. Four weeks from today, to be precise. I firmly believe that it is my civic duty to remind you of that each and every week. In celebration of the 1980’s greatest franchise (and quite possibly the greatest franchise of all time), I’m going to leave you with a quote each week. I’m sure that the more astute of you dear readers out there will recognize these quotes immediate. For those of you who don’t, well let’s just say that I find you lacking in your education.
“Listen Ironhide, we don’t have enough energon cubes to power a full scale assault. Ready the shuttle for launch!… Now all we need is a little energon and a lot of luck.”
-Optimus Prime
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Women are Noise Pollution
You know, I’m not a religious man. I’ve never been baptized or gone out of my way to go to church or even took time to study the Bible. I know I’m probably the exception rather than the rule, but I’m ok with that. I’m pretty sure that if there was a God in Heaven, and He did love me, then the world would be a much different place. Namely, women would come with a volume control as a standard feature.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that there isn’t a God up there, because, well, there very well might be. What I am saying, is that if He does indeed exist, then He most definitely does not have much love for me. If you know anything about me, then you know that women have always been, and will always be, the bane of my existence.
I enjoy the company of women just like any other man. What can I say? Women are fun creatures given the right circumstances. However, they are evil and vile mortals that want only to drink from men’s souls. They don’t mean to be, it’s just part of their being. It is some sort of inbred genetic code that science and modern technology have yet to crack. And I’m willing to bet that they never will. Such malevolence cannot be undone by mere science.
But I did not want to talk to you to day about the dark arts of the woman. No, today I merely wanted to discuss the reasons they are annoying. Yes, I believe we can all agree that those female creatures are annoying. Even women are aggravated by most of their kind. Foremost among the irritating mannerisms of the womenfolk, is the excessive abuse of the human languages. In other word, women like to talk.
Or to be more precise, for some strange reason, women really like to hear themselves talk. I don’t know what the compulsion is behind this, but it must stop. As I have said before, if there was a just and loving God, He would have put a volume control on every woman born. But since God has left mankind wanting in that regard, I have decided to step up and “fix” that particular feminine problem.
I have come up with an invention so daring, so utterly ingenious that it cannot hope to do anything but succeed. And by that I mean that it will most likely fail miserably. Let’s be honest with ourselves here, I don’t exactly have an endorsing track record here. Have no fear, however, as I still have faith in myself. I may not have faith in my contraption or my abilities, but I do have faith in myself, for what that’s worth.
I could draw you a sophisticated diagram showing off my work and how to replicate it, but I fear that would be a waste of time and paper. It would be much easier to put into words. A picture is worth a thousand words, yes, but it will take just a scant few to relay the ingenious device that I have devised. Please, read on.
Basically, all you have to do is to find an old volume dial from a decrepit television. I’d really much prefer the dial so you can easily and quickly turn to the desired noise level, rather than the much more recent volume +\- buttons that take longer to attune. Once you have found your dial take it, and weld it to the back of your woman. And, well, that’s pretty much it.
Once you have done that, you now have a volume control for your woman that you can use anytime. In reality you can weld it to any part of her body, but I suggest the middle of her back. That way, it does not deform any of the more redeeming physical qualities of the female. And let’s be honest, they can be quite attractive if they ever took the time and inclination to shut up. As far as I’m concerned, women should be seen and not heard.
Now I know there is one fatal flaw in my design. Just because you weld a volume dial to something doesn’t mean that the dial will turn and actually control the variation of noise. This is true. However, I assume that if you’re determined enough (or crazy enough) to forcibly connect a piece of metal into your beloved’s back, then you most likely capable of doing other, more insidious things to her. I know I don’t give women much credit for their smarts, but I do believe they are intelligent enough to know that a man who welds a volume control to her back, he is pretty damned serious when he tells her to be quiet, or else. I think women are smart enough to shut up at that point.
Then again, I’ve known girls who, for some reason or another, just can’t seem to shut themselves up. They continue to talk even when it’s in their best interest to stop. What can I do? I am but one man. I cannot “help” every woman out there. But then again, I’ve never been much help to women. My priorities lie with helping my fellow man. And this is what I have attempted to do here today.
So I beg of you, all of you women out there. Please try not to talk as much. Lower the volume, talk softer and less often. It is not just for me that I ask, but for you as well. Truth be told, women are much more beautiful when they keep their silence. Sure there are a handful of women in the world that actually become more attractive when they talk, but I can assure you that you are not one of them. You belong to the vast majority of women that, although attractive at first sight, instantly lose their physical appeal when that oral organ begins to move and sounds fly out.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Women should be seen and not heard. This is the universal truth that I live my life behind. Sure, there are other, more respectable causes to champion, but I like my ideals just fine. Hey, somebody has to do it. If not for me raising the banner and battle cry for men’s rights, who would?
I realize that women are not mere objects meant for men’s possession, but I’m allowed to fantasize of this dream, right? Guys need to know that sometimes it’s ok to be a man. Most of our lives we melt around the fairer sex and bend to their wills. But you know what, sometimes it’s perfectly all right to sit down, drink a cold frosty beer, watch some football, and tell your woman to shut up. Seriously, it’s ok. You can tell her I said so.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that there isn’t a God up there, because, well, there very well might be. What I am saying, is that if He does indeed exist, then He most definitely does not have much love for me. If you know anything about me, then you know that women have always been, and will always be, the bane of my existence.
I enjoy the company of women just like any other man. What can I say? Women are fun creatures given the right circumstances. However, they are evil and vile mortals that want only to drink from men’s souls. They don’t mean to be, it’s just part of their being. It is some sort of inbred genetic code that science and modern technology have yet to crack. And I’m willing to bet that they never will. Such malevolence cannot be undone by mere science.
But I did not want to talk to you to day about the dark arts of the woman. No, today I merely wanted to discuss the reasons they are annoying. Yes, I believe we can all agree that those female creatures are annoying. Even women are aggravated by most of their kind. Foremost among the irritating mannerisms of the womenfolk, is the excessive abuse of the human languages. In other word, women like to talk.
Or to be more precise, for some strange reason, women really like to hear themselves talk. I don’t know what the compulsion is behind this, but it must stop. As I have said before, if there was a just and loving God, He would have put a volume control on every woman born. But since God has left mankind wanting in that regard, I have decided to step up and “fix” that particular feminine problem.
I have come up with an invention so daring, so utterly ingenious that it cannot hope to do anything but succeed. And by that I mean that it will most likely fail miserably. Let’s be honest with ourselves here, I don’t exactly have an endorsing track record here. Have no fear, however, as I still have faith in myself. I may not have faith in my contraption or my abilities, but I do have faith in myself, for what that’s worth.
I could draw you a sophisticated diagram showing off my work and how to replicate it, but I fear that would be a waste of time and paper. It would be much easier to put into words. A picture is worth a thousand words, yes, but it will take just a scant few to relay the ingenious device that I have devised. Please, read on.
Basically, all you have to do is to find an old volume dial from a decrepit television. I’d really much prefer the dial so you can easily and quickly turn to the desired noise level, rather than the much more recent volume +\- buttons that take longer to attune. Once you have found your dial take it, and weld it to the back of your woman. And, well, that’s pretty much it.
Once you have done that, you now have a volume control for your woman that you can use anytime. In reality you can weld it to any part of her body, but I suggest the middle of her back. That way, it does not deform any of the more redeeming physical qualities of the female. And let’s be honest, they can be quite attractive if they ever took the time and inclination to shut up. As far as I’m concerned, women should be seen and not heard.
Now I know there is one fatal flaw in my design. Just because you weld a volume dial to something doesn’t mean that the dial will turn and actually control the variation of noise. This is true. However, I assume that if you’re determined enough (or crazy enough) to forcibly connect a piece of metal into your beloved’s back, then you most likely capable of doing other, more insidious things to her. I know I don’t give women much credit for their smarts, but I do believe they are intelligent enough to know that a man who welds a volume control to her back, he is pretty damned serious when he tells her to be quiet, or else. I think women are smart enough to shut up at that point.
Then again, I’ve known girls who, for some reason or another, just can’t seem to shut themselves up. They continue to talk even when it’s in their best interest to stop. What can I do? I am but one man. I cannot “help” every woman out there. But then again, I’ve never been much help to women. My priorities lie with helping my fellow man. And this is what I have attempted to do here today.
So I beg of you, all of you women out there. Please try not to talk as much. Lower the volume, talk softer and less often. It is not just for me that I ask, but for you as well. Truth be told, women are much more beautiful when they keep their silence. Sure there are a handful of women in the world that actually become more attractive when they talk, but I can assure you that you are not one of them. You belong to the vast majority of women that, although attractive at first sight, instantly lose their physical appeal when that oral organ begins to move and sounds fly out.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Women should be seen and not heard. This is the universal truth that I live my life behind. Sure, there are other, more respectable causes to champion, but I like my ideals just fine. Hey, somebody has to do it. If not for me raising the banner and battle cry for men’s rights, who would?
I realize that women are not mere objects meant for men’s possession, but I’m allowed to fantasize of this dream, right? Guys need to know that sometimes it’s ok to be a man. Most of our lives we melt around the fairer sex and bend to their wills. But you know what, sometimes it’s perfectly all right to sit down, drink a cold frosty beer, watch some football, and tell your woman to shut up. Seriously, it’s ok. You can tell her I said so.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Real Men Have Big Cables
So the other day I did the unthinkable. I went to Wal-Mart. Now don’t get me wrong, Wal-Mart has a very large selection of goods at very low prices. There’s nothing questionable about that. I just don’t particularly care to go to the discount super center. It just seems to me that it is much more of a hassle than it is worth.
Even when I try to go during off-peak hours, there still are far too many crowds of people at the local Wal-Mart. This bothers me seeing as I have an absolute disdain for people in general. In addition, they can be even more annoying when I’m shopping. When I’m in a store, I’m on a mission. I’m not there to peruse the stocked items; I’m there to pick up exactly what I need then get out so I can get back to playing video games. I’ve got the mentality of a 14 year old, so sue me.
Now I don’t hate people just because they’re human. I generally just dislike large groups of people. For some reason, when people are large groups, whether it’s planned or not, they tend to act like idiots. I’m not sure if there’s some sort of psychological reason this happens, I never did put much stock in that Freud guy. But I do know that this generalization seems to get worse when people shop. I don’t know why, I don’t want to know why; I just wish people would avoid me when they feel the idiocy about to sting them.
So you may be asking yourself why I would willingly go to Wal-Mart when I hate shopping so much. Well, if you must know, I finally got off my lazy rear end and went to pick up an adapter for my TV. I’m sure most of you have one of those fancy new HDTV’s with about 18 different audio and video inputs available. My television, however, is a piece of shit. And I mean that in the nicest way possible. Well, no I don’t, my TV sucks.
In addition to all of the other things that I’m not overly fond of about it, the TV in my living room has only one input for the audio/video cables. A few months before, that wasn’t a problem. The cable box connects to the cable jack and my DVD player hooked in fine with the familiar yellow, red, and white wires. However, just before Thanksgiving I was lucky enough to snag a brand new Nintendo Wii at its initial release. So then I had to unplug my DVD player just to play with my Wii and conversely, I had to disable the Nintendo in order to watch a DVD. This was clearly unacceptable.
I could duplicate the setup that I have in my bedroom, but to be perfectly honest, I’m not entirely sure how I managed to get everything to work in there. I’ll just give you a quick run down of my bedroom set-up: I have a mini-fridge that is used to chill refreshing beverages as well as act as a mini-entertainment center. On top of the fridge is my small TV. On top of that lays my Nintendo Gamecube and my Playstaion 2 (new version, much smaller than the original). The space between the fridge and the futon is home to the SNES, some sort of adapter, the cable modem, and a power strip that is probably overloaded far in excess of its safety parameters. How I got the cable and three game systems on an old Sony TV is anyone’s guess. There’s far too many lines back there for me come to any sane conclusion.
I’m sure you know how much trouble it can be to get back there and start fooling around with wires and cables and all that nonsense. It is a veritable jungle behind the mini-fridge with its own ecosystem entirely independent from the rest of the apartment. I’m fairly certain whole species of new creatures have been borne and gone extinct within these myriads of wires, dust, and electrical current.
So this past weekend, I finally relinquished my laziness, broke down, and bought an adapter that allows four separate devices to be hooked into it and then hooks individually into my living room TV. Oh, and it’s fancy too. I don’t even have to press any buttons to choose between using the DVD player or the Nintendo. The adapter automatically recognizes which device is on and will switch to that device without my input.
I know, it’s impressive. So impressive, in fact, that the adapter didn’t come with any cables of its own. It didn’t come with the audio/video cables I needed to hook the adapter into my TV nor (and more importantly) did it come with a power cable. Of course, I didn’t realize it was without the required AC adapter until I started setting it up. I don’t know who thought up the bright idea of making a unit such as that without a readily available means of acquiring electricity from my wall, but whatever person made that decision, they just reaffirmed my beliefs in humanity’s constant idiocy.
Luckily for me, I tend to be a pack rat when it comes to electronical things (and yes, I do realize I just made that word up). I have at least two boxes full of old cables and batteries and all sorts of electronic parts whose origins elude me. Amidst the UCB cables and speaker wire I did find the AC adapter from my old and now defunct laptop computer, as well as another cable to link my TV to the new adapter. In a sense, I was victorious.
So take that corporate America! I realize that you vend your wires and connecters separately so you can charge more and milk us plebeians for our hard earned wages. But as for me, I do not need to additionally purchase your independently packaged wares. I am free of your artificial price gouging. And this isn’t the first time I have escaped your vile clutches either.
When I bought my printer almost a year ago, I was pretty happy since I got it on sale. It’s one of those multi-tasking printers. In addition to putting words on a sheet of paper, it also scans, copies, faxes, fires “Patriot” surface to air missiles, wards my office from the undead, and eats dead orphans. I didn’t exactly ask for that last bit of functionality, it just… um, came with the whole package. What didn’t come in the deal, however, was the USB cable that was needed to connect the printer to my computing machine. This cable is, well, it’s pretty damned important. The printer won’t print, or do any of its various other tasks, without this cable. Oh, and Best Buy charges somewhere around $30 a foot for the stupid cable. Yeah, that’s almost as much as the whole printer cost me. And does the cable eat dead orphans? I think not.
Once again, my pack ratting skills came into play. (Did I just make up another word there?) At the time, I had two unused USB cables lying in a box in my closet. For some strange reason I felt like I had abused the system by not paying an exorbitant rate for a brand new piece of wire to go with my new ultra functional printer. And you know what, it felt good.
With all of those cables hooked up and lying about, it’s no small wonder my apartment has yet to go up in flames. I wonder if my renter’s insurance policy covers electrical fires of gross incompetence. I should probably read over that. But in the meantime, please keep any live orphans away from my printer. The owner’s manual states that it expressly consumes the dead kind of orphans. But I think in this case it’s best to not take any chances.
Even when I try to go during off-peak hours, there still are far too many crowds of people at the local Wal-Mart. This bothers me seeing as I have an absolute disdain for people in general. In addition, they can be even more annoying when I’m shopping. When I’m in a store, I’m on a mission. I’m not there to peruse the stocked items; I’m there to pick up exactly what I need then get out so I can get back to playing video games. I’ve got the mentality of a 14 year old, so sue me.
Now I don’t hate people just because they’re human. I generally just dislike large groups of people. For some reason, when people are large groups, whether it’s planned or not, they tend to act like idiots. I’m not sure if there’s some sort of psychological reason this happens, I never did put much stock in that Freud guy. But I do know that this generalization seems to get worse when people shop. I don’t know why, I don’t want to know why; I just wish people would avoid me when they feel the idiocy about to sting them.
So you may be asking yourself why I would willingly go to Wal-Mart when I hate shopping so much. Well, if you must know, I finally got off my lazy rear end and went to pick up an adapter for my TV. I’m sure most of you have one of those fancy new HDTV’s with about 18 different audio and video inputs available. My television, however, is a piece of shit. And I mean that in the nicest way possible. Well, no I don’t, my TV sucks.
In addition to all of the other things that I’m not overly fond of about it, the TV in my living room has only one input for the audio/video cables. A few months before, that wasn’t a problem. The cable box connects to the cable jack and my DVD player hooked in fine with the familiar yellow, red, and white wires. However, just before Thanksgiving I was lucky enough to snag a brand new Nintendo Wii at its initial release. So then I had to unplug my DVD player just to play with my Wii and conversely, I had to disable the Nintendo in order to watch a DVD. This was clearly unacceptable.
I could duplicate the setup that I have in my bedroom, but to be perfectly honest, I’m not entirely sure how I managed to get everything to work in there. I’ll just give you a quick run down of my bedroom set-up: I have a mini-fridge that is used to chill refreshing beverages as well as act as a mini-entertainment center. On top of the fridge is my small TV. On top of that lays my Nintendo Gamecube and my Playstaion 2 (new version, much smaller than the original). The space between the fridge and the futon is home to the SNES, some sort of adapter, the cable modem, and a power strip that is probably overloaded far in excess of its safety parameters. How I got the cable and three game systems on an old Sony TV is anyone’s guess. There’s far too many lines back there for me come to any sane conclusion.
I’m sure you know how much trouble it can be to get back there and start fooling around with wires and cables and all that nonsense. It is a veritable jungle behind the mini-fridge with its own ecosystem entirely independent from the rest of the apartment. I’m fairly certain whole species of new creatures have been borne and gone extinct within these myriads of wires, dust, and electrical current.
So this past weekend, I finally relinquished my laziness, broke down, and bought an adapter that allows four separate devices to be hooked into it and then hooks individually into my living room TV. Oh, and it’s fancy too. I don’t even have to press any buttons to choose between using the DVD player or the Nintendo. The adapter automatically recognizes which device is on and will switch to that device without my input.
I know, it’s impressive. So impressive, in fact, that the adapter didn’t come with any cables of its own. It didn’t come with the audio/video cables I needed to hook the adapter into my TV nor (and more importantly) did it come with a power cable. Of course, I didn’t realize it was without the required AC adapter until I started setting it up. I don’t know who thought up the bright idea of making a unit such as that without a readily available means of acquiring electricity from my wall, but whatever person made that decision, they just reaffirmed my beliefs in humanity’s constant idiocy.
Luckily for me, I tend to be a pack rat when it comes to electronical things (and yes, I do realize I just made that word up). I have at least two boxes full of old cables and batteries and all sorts of electronic parts whose origins elude me. Amidst the UCB cables and speaker wire I did find the AC adapter from my old and now defunct laptop computer, as well as another cable to link my TV to the new adapter. In a sense, I was victorious.
So take that corporate America! I realize that you vend your wires and connecters separately so you can charge more and milk us plebeians for our hard earned wages. But as for me, I do not need to additionally purchase your independently packaged wares. I am free of your artificial price gouging. And this isn’t the first time I have escaped your vile clutches either.
When I bought my printer almost a year ago, I was pretty happy since I got it on sale. It’s one of those multi-tasking printers. In addition to putting words on a sheet of paper, it also scans, copies, faxes, fires “Patriot” surface to air missiles, wards my office from the undead, and eats dead orphans. I didn’t exactly ask for that last bit of functionality, it just… um, came with the whole package. What didn’t come in the deal, however, was the USB cable that was needed to connect the printer to my computing machine. This cable is, well, it’s pretty damned important. The printer won’t print, or do any of its various other tasks, without this cable. Oh, and Best Buy charges somewhere around $30 a foot for the stupid cable. Yeah, that’s almost as much as the whole printer cost me. And does the cable eat dead orphans? I think not.
Once again, my pack ratting skills came into play. (Did I just make up another word there?) At the time, I had two unused USB cables lying in a box in my closet. For some strange reason I felt like I had abused the system by not paying an exorbitant rate for a brand new piece of wire to go with my new ultra functional printer. And you know what, it felt good.
With all of those cables hooked up and lying about, it’s no small wonder my apartment has yet to go up in flames. I wonder if my renter’s insurance policy covers electrical fires of gross incompetence. I should probably read over that. But in the meantime, please keep any live orphans away from my printer. The owner’s manual states that it expressly consumes the dead kind of orphans. But I think in this case it’s best to not take any chances.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
I’m Such a Wreck, I’m Such a Mess
I am I horrible, horrible person. But hopefully you already knew that. I’ve been a lazy good for nothing slouch for the past week, and I missed putting up something new last Wednesday. But hey, I have a really good reason for being lazy. I was pretty busy last week. Well, busy for a person who most likely resembles the three-toed sloth rather than a common homo-sapiens.
Last Tuesday I wound up at a friends place playing poker and having a few drinks. Now, if you’ve ever gambled before then you might already know that drinking and betting money is a really bad idea. Trust me, I’ve lost plenty of money that way. Luckily I’m the kind of guy who learns from his mistakes. This time around I only had one drink. And then I still lost all my money. In all honestly, I had a feeling it was all going to end badly. The very first hand I played I folded, but had I stayed in I would have had a full house (twos over threes). So yeah, it was pretty much all down hill after that. Suffice it to say that you won’t be seeing me on the World Series of Poker any time soon.
After playing poker, a few of us ended up heading out to Waffle House for some late night food. And I use the word “food” very loosely here. I’m pretty sure everything on the Waffle House’s menu is comprised mainly of lard fried in bacon grease. And it’s just the most scrumptious cuisine you would ever want to partake in. As far as I’m concerned, it beats the pants off of IHOP. Seriously, if you don’t live in the South, you’re missing out. I mean, White Castle is good and all, but do they stay open 24 hours a day? I think not.
Unfortunately, I was carpooling with one of the other guys, and after getting out of Waffle House in the wee early hours of Wednesday morning, we were actually much closer to his place than to mine. So, I ended up crashing at his place that night (for a grand total of four hours of sleep) and he drove me back home bright and early in the morning. So I left my apartment around 10:30pm Tuesday night and didn’t return until almost 9:30am Wednesday morning. As you may have noticed, I’m a bad, bad boy (and on a school night!).
Honestly, that would normally be ok. The only real thing I have to worry about on Wednesdays is getting to my hockey game at night. Playing hockey is truly the highlight of my week, and I look forward to it each and every time. But, well, this time I kind of screwed up. And by “kind of,” I mean I really and truly did screw up. I did mention that I’m a horrible person, didn’t I?
For some strange reason, I thought that our game was at 10:30pm that night, when in reality it was at 9pm. These are the only two times that we play, so I had an actualized 50% chance to get it right. And if you didn’t already figure things out from my poker playing ability (or lack thereof) my luck wasn’t all that great this past week. Fortunately, I did check the schedule at the last second (although why I never checked earlier in the day baffles me to no end), which put on the ice ten minutes into the first period, with my team already down two goals.
Needless to say, we ended up losing that game. I still say that if I was there from the start we would have won. I mean, I’m allowed to keep my delusions, right? I’m pretty sure there’s no way you can prove me wrong on this, so I’m going to go ahead and keep being delusional. I think I’ve earned it.
Now we’re on to Thursday. Thursday night was windy, pouring down rain, and generally not a nice night to be outside. And for some strange reason I thought it’d be a good idea to go out and run in that kind of weather. For the record, I am not a masochist. I’m merely an idiot.
Well, see, I have been trying to convince myself to get in better shape for over two months now. I had finally worked up the courage to go running, so I went out despite the weather. Hey, that kind of willpower doesn’t come to me very often, so I have to use it when I get it. I might be inclined to think my willpower needs better timing though. Luckily, I got through a whole three miles without too much of a problem. I guess playing hockey every week has helped out more than I thought.
But then I woke up the next morning. And for some reason, my legs no longer worked. The legs were sore and completely unresponsive. My every attempt to get out of bed was met with utter rebellion by the lower half of my body. Let me tell you, this was a huge problem. It was early in the morning, and I desperately needed to use the restroom. Interestingly enough, there’s a window right next to my bed. After several moments though (and trust me, I did think about it), I finally convinced the legs to get in gear and get moving. I fell down three times during the 13 foot trip to my bathroom. All in all, I would call that a success.
Friday was boring, I’ll admit it, so we can skip that. Saturday on the other hand, that was something else. A good friend of mine turned 21 this past Saturday. And, like the awesome pal that I am, I accompanied her to Thee Doll House, an upper class strip club in Raleigh. Yes, that’s right, my friend is a female. It is possible for me to hang out with women and not anger them. Well, it’s possible for me to sometimes hang out with women without pissing them off. And for the record, the birthday girl’s name is Whitney. And also for the record, going to Thee Doll House was her idea, not mine.
So, I’m having a drink, watching a fight on the big screen TV, and watching topless girls dancing while sitting next to a newly 21 year old female. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday night. I’d just like to say that I didn’t get a chance to buy Whitney a lap dance, her boyfriend bought her plenty of them. Heck, she even bought herself a few (she was really enjoying herself). I’d also like to say that I didn’t buy myself a lap dance. It’s not my prerogative to spend a bunch of money on a simple tease. Whitney, on the other hand, definitely bought me a lap dance. And yes, it was enjoyable. Very enjoyable.
At the end of the night I went home to be by myself. Number one, it was late. Number two, I’m not going home with a stripper. And number three, I needed a cold shower.
So, what have we learned here today? I’m a horrible, bad person, but I’m sure you already knew that. I’m also very lazy, but again, I’m convinced you could have figured that out on your own. I love playing hockey, a fact which is also widely known. And lastly, I have a female friend that drags me to a strip club on her birthday and then buys me a lap dance to make sure I’m having fun. Translation: my life rocks.
Last Tuesday I wound up at a friends place playing poker and having a few drinks. Now, if you’ve ever gambled before then you might already know that drinking and betting money is a really bad idea. Trust me, I’ve lost plenty of money that way. Luckily I’m the kind of guy who learns from his mistakes. This time around I only had one drink. And then I still lost all my money. In all honestly, I had a feeling it was all going to end badly. The very first hand I played I folded, but had I stayed in I would have had a full house (twos over threes). So yeah, it was pretty much all down hill after that. Suffice it to say that you won’t be seeing me on the World Series of Poker any time soon.
After playing poker, a few of us ended up heading out to Waffle House for some late night food. And I use the word “food” very loosely here. I’m pretty sure everything on the Waffle House’s menu is comprised mainly of lard fried in bacon grease. And it’s just the most scrumptious cuisine you would ever want to partake in. As far as I’m concerned, it beats the pants off of IHOP. Seriously, if you don’t live in the South, you’re missing out. I mean, White Castle is good and all, but do they stay open 24 hours a day? I think not.
Unfortunately, I was carpooling with one of the other guys, and after getting out of Waffle House in the wee early hours of Wednesday morning, we were actually much closer to his place than to mine. So, I ended up crashing at his place that night (for a grand total of four hours of sleep) and he drove me back home bright and early in the morning. So I left my apartment around 10:30pm Tuesday night and didn’t return until almost 9:30am Wednesday morning. As you may have noticed, I’m a bad, bad boy (and on a school night!).
Honestly, that would normally be ok. The only real thing I have to worry about on Wednesdays is getting to my hockey game at night. Playing hockey is truly the highlight of my week, and I look forward to it each and every time. But, well, this time I kind of screwed up. And by “kind of,” I mean I really and truly did screw up. I did mention that I’m a horrible person, didn’t I?
For some strange reason, I thought that our game was at 10:30pm that night, when in reality it was at 9pm. These are the only two times that we play, so I had an actualized 50% chance to get it right. And if you didn’t already figure things out from my poker playing ability (or lack thereof) my luck wasn’t all that great this past week. Fortunately, I did check the schedule at the last second (although why I never checked earlier in the day baffles me to no end), which put on the ice ten minutes into the first period, with my team already down two goals.
Needless to say, we ended up losing that game. I still say that if I was there from the start we would have won. I mean, I’m allowed to keep my delusions, right? I’m pretty sure there’s no way you can prove me wrong on this, so I’m going to go ahead and keep being delusional. I think I’ve earned it.
Now we’re on to Thursday. Thursday night was windy, pouring down rain, and generally not a nice night to be outside. And for some strange reason I thought it’d be a good idea to go out and run in that kind of weather. For the record, I am not a masochist. I’m merely an idiot.
Well, see, I have been trying to convince myself to get in better shape for over two months now. I had finally worked up the courage to go running, so I went out despite the weather. Hey, that kind of willpower doesn’t come to me very often, so I have to use it when I get it. I might be inclined to think my willpower needs better timing though. Luckily, I got through a whole three miles without too much of a problem. I guess playing hockey every week has helped out more than I thought.
But then I woke up the next morning. And for some reason, my legs no longer worked. The legs were sore and completely unresponsive. My every attempt to get out of bed was met with utter rebellion by the lower half of my body. Let me tell you, this was a huge problem. It was early in the morning, and I desperately needed to use the restroom. Interestingly enough, there’s a window right next to my bed. After several moments though (and trust me, I did think about it), I finally convinced the legs to get in gear and get moving. I fell down three times during the 13 foot trip to my bathroom. All in all, I would call that a success.
Friday was boring, I’ll admit it, so we can skip that. Saturday on the other hand, that was something else. A good friend of mine turned 21 this past Saturday. And, like the awesome pal that I am, I accompanied her to Thee Doll House, an upper class strip club in Raleigh. Yes, that’s right, my friend is a female. It is possible for me to hang out with women and not anger them. Well, it’s possible for me to sometimes hang out with women without pissing them off. And for the record, the birthday girl’s name is Whitney. And also for the record, going to Thee Doll House was her idea, not mine.
So, I’m having a drink, watching a fight on the big screen TV, and watching topless girls dancing while sitting next to a newly 21 year old female. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday night. I’d just like to say that I didn’t get a chance to buy Whitney a lap dance, her boyfriend bought her plenty of them. Heck, she even bought herself a few (she was really enjoying herself). I’d also like to say that I didn’t buy myself a lap dance. It’s not my prerogative to spend a bunch of money on a simple tease. Whitney, on the other hand, definitely bought me a lap dance. And yes, it was enjoyable. Very enjoyable.
At the end of the night I went home to be by myself. Number one, it was late. Number two, I’m not going home with a stripper. And number three, I needed a cold shower.
So, what have we learned here today? I’m a horrible, bad person, but I’m sure you already knew that. I’m also very lazy, but again, I’m convinced you could have figured that out on your own. I love playing hockey, a fact which is also widely known. And lastly, I have a female friend that drags me to a strip club on her birthday and then buys me a lap dance to make sure I’m having fun. Translation: my life rocks.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Aprons Are for Nancy-boys
So I’ve had a little bit of free time lately, and I decided to use it to do something productive. Yesterday was clean up day. I figured, after about three months, it was finally time to clear out the mountain of Wendy’s and Hardee’s take out bags that were piled up on top of my trash can. No seriously, the pile was almost as tall as I was. It was getting to be a chess match between me and the fragile prehistoric mound-like edifice I had built. Will one more bag fit on top without everything toppling over? Can I go one more day without having to take out the garbage? These are the questions that plague my mind daily.
So I loaded everything up into four separate trash bags and took everything out. Yes, four trash bags for a one bedroom apartment. I’m not a dirty man, I’m just lazy. Hey, I take my trash out once every three months, that means I’m being clean enough, right? You know what, do me a favor and don’t answer that.
But yesterday was about oh-so much more than taking out the trash. In fact, my dirty clothes had been building a mound society of their very own. Normally I have to pull the hammer out of my tool box so I can use the claw side of it to rip apart the garments that have become cemented together in my laundry basket. I’m actually surprised that the amount of time and pressure exerted upon my dirty clothes in the laundry basket doesn’t fuse two articles together to form some sort of mutated freak of apparel. Luckily that hasn’t happened. Nor did I have to resort to using tools to separate my clothes. For some strange reason, the laundry basket has remained next to my washing machine since the last time I did clothes instead of returning to my closet where it belongs. Hey, I’m lazy, remember.
So instead, I found a large mound of dirty clothes lying on the floor of my closet blocking me from access to my dresser and whatever else I might need. Normally that would be a bad thing, but it’s been at least six months since I folded and clothes and put them away. I have developed a perfectly intellectual system for my clothing cycles. The smelly wrinkled clothes on the floor are dirty. The wrinkled clothes laying on the futon are clean. And of course, if it’s on the floor and it doesn’t smell, it gets relegated to that grey area where it’s ok to wear as long as I’m not going on a date. Well, it’s probably ok to wear on a date as long as I’m not trying to impress the girl.
So after starting a load of laundry, taking out the trash, and cleaning a few dishes (the nice thing about fast food is that you don’t have too many dishes to worry about) I decided to bake a batch of cookies. See, there’s this recipe for double chocolate cookies that I’ve been meaning to try since I’ve never actually done a pure chocolate cookie recipe before. Hey, I enjoy baking. Now I know what you’re thinking, but this does not make me a woman. Guys can be domestic too you know. So before you start making fun of me, let me just remind you that I’m 6’2”, 190lbs, an avid hockey player, and I could totally beat the crap out of your boyfriend.
I think my forays into the mystic realm of bakeries is well documented. So suffice it to say, I pretty much know what I’m doing. And as luck would have it the cookies turned out rather well. I’m enjoying them at least. It was a pretty small batch I made up so I most likely will not be sending any out to friends, which is a break from my normal routine. I believe in sharing, I’m nice like that. Just like when a friend of mine is dating a girl who has a physically attractive sister/roommate/friend on the rebound, I expect them to share. Like I said, it’s the polite thing to do.
I look back now and I see a much cleaner apartment and I feel an odd sense of accomplishment. Granted, it’s not exactly what most of you would normally call “neat” or “clean.” There’s still junk lying out over the coffee table and who knows what sitting on top of the kitchenette bar (seriously, I’m too afraid to find out). Hey, a there’s only so much domestication a guy can do before the NHL All-Star Skills Competition comes on. And yes, I’m that big of a hockey freak that I watch the skills competition every year. What can I say, I love hockey.
Unfortunately, I won’t be able to watch the All-Star game tonight. It comes on at 8pm Eastern Time and I have my own hockey game to play at 9pm. This game is important too since we have a chance at winning that would put us at 2-2 for the season. That would be huge when you bear in mind that we only had two wins all last season combined. I’m not afraid to admit that we suck. And you know what? I’m ok with that. We’re getting better, and with some luck we could finish this season at .500 or better. That’s the goal at least.
In the meantime I should probably finish what I started yesterday. My apartment still hasn’t been totally cleaned up, but you know what, screw it. I’m too lazy. Besides, what did you expect? If you want to see clean and tidy go call up Martha Stewart. If you want to see an apartment that revolves around pizza, beer, and video games then you’ve come to the right place. Now if you’ll excuse me for a minute, I need to go grab another beer…
As a final note I wanted to give some kudos to ESPN commentator Mike Ditka for being the only person on ESPN (both on TV and on ESPN.com) to pick the Bears (DAA Bears!) to win the NFC Championship game over the New Orleans Saints. I’m sure he had personal reasons for picking the Bears to win, but nevertheless, he was the only one who got it right. The rest of you football journalists should pay attention. Mike Ditka is smarter than you. Oh, and Rex Grossman is still my hero. Laugh at me all you want, but he’s in the Super Bowl and you’re not.
So I loaded everything up into four separate trash bags and took everything out. Yes, four trash bags for a one bedroom apartment. I’m not a dirty man, I’m just lazy. Hey, I take my trash out once every three months, that means I’m being clean enough, right? You know what, do me a favor and don’t answer that.
But yesterday was about oh-so much more than taking out the trash. In fact, my dirty clothes had been building a mound society of their very own. Normally I have to pull the hammer out of my tool box so I can use the claw side of it to rip apart the garments that have become cemented together in my laundry basket. I’m actually surprised that the amount of time and pressure exerted upon my dirty clothes in the laundry basket doesn’t fuse two articles together to form some sort of mutated freak of apparel. Luckily that hasn’t happened. Nor did I have to resort to using tools to separate my clothes. For some strange reason, the laundry basket has remained next to my washing machine since the last time I did clothes instead of returning to my closet where it belongs. Hey, I’m lazy, remember.
So instead, I found a large mound of dirty clothes lying on the floor of my closet blocking me from access to my dresser and whatever else I might need. Normally that would be a bad thing, but it’s been at least six months since I folded and clothes and put them away. I have developed a perfectly intellectual system for my clothing cycles. The smelly wrinkled clothes on the floor are dirty. The wrinkled clothes laying on the futon are clean. And of course, if it’s on the floor and it doesn’t smell, it gets relegated to that grey area where it’s ok to wear as long as I’m not going on a date. Well, it’s probably ok to wear on a date as long as I’m not trying to impress the girl.
So after starting a load of laundry, taking out the trash, and cleaning a few dishes (the nice thing about fast food is that you don’t have too many dishes to worry about) I decided to bake a batch of cookies. See, there’s this recipe for double chocolate cookies that I’ve been meaning to try since I’ve never actually done a pure chocolate cookie recipe before. Hey, I enjoy baking. Now I know what you’re thinking, but this does not make me a woman. Guys can be domestic too you know. So before you start making fun of me, let me just remind you that I’m 6’2”, 190lbs, an avid hockey player, and I could totally beat the crap out of your boyfriend.
I think my forays into the mystic realm of bakeries is well documented. So suffice it to say, I pretty much know what I’m doing. And as luck would have it the cookies turned out rather well. I’m enjoying them at least. It was a pretty small batch I made up so I most likely will not be sending any out to friends, which is a break from my normal routine. I believe in sharing, I’m nice like that. Just like when a friend of mine is dating a girl who has a physically attractive sister/roommate/friend on the rebound, I expect them to share. Like I said, it’s the polite thing to do.
I look back now and I see a much cleaner apartment and I feel an odd sense of accomplishment. Granted, it’s not exactly what most of you would normally call “neat” or “clean.” There’s still junk lying out over the coffee table and who knows what sitting on top of the kitchenette bar (seriously, I’m too afraid to find out). Hey, a there’s only so much domestication a guy can do before the NHL All-Star Skills Competition comes on. And yes, I’m that big of a hockey freak that I watch the skills competition every year. What can I say, I love hockey.
Unfortunately, I won’t be able to watch the All-Star game tonight. It comes on at 8pm Eastern Time and I have my own hockey game to play at 9pm. This game is important too since we have a chance at winning that would put us at 2-2 for the season. That would be huge when you bear in mind that we only had two wins all last season combined. I’m not afraid to admit that we suck. And you know what? I’m ok with that. We’re getting better, and with some luck we could finish this season at .500 or better. That’s the goal at least.
In the meantime I should probably finish what I started yesterday. My apartment still hasn’t been totally cleaned up, but you know what, screw it. I’m too lazy. Besides, what did you expect? If you want to see clean and tidy go call up Martha Stewart. If you want to see an apartment that revolves around pizza, beer, and video games then you’ve come to the right place. Now if you’ll excuse me for a minute, I need to go grab another beer…
As a final note I wanted to give some kudos to ESPN commentator Mike Ditka for being the only person on ESPN (both on TV and on ESPN.com) to pick the Bears (DAA Bears!) to win the NFC Championship game over the New Orleans Saints. I’m sure he had personal reasons for picking the Bears to win, but nevertheless, he was the only one who got it right. The rest of you football journalists should pay attention. Mike Ditka is smarter than you. Oh, and Rex Grossman is still my hero. Laugh at me all you want, but he’s in the Super Bowl and you’re not.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Some Stuff, Different Year
You know, I’m not one to be overly introspective. I always expect myself to improve in the things I do, but setting actual goals and time limits, that’s not something I’m really into. That being said, I actually have a few New Years Resolutions this go around. Like I said, I’m not usually one to set resolutions… Well, except for the usual pledge to meet more girls who are quick to get out of their pants. Now calm down. I know what you’re thinking. But contrary to popular belief, my goal every year is NOT to pick up the most sluttish and easiest girls out there. I have been working, for quite some time and with more than a little bit of effort, mind you, on a theory of mine that purports that there is a directly proportional relationship between how annoying a girl is and the amount of clothes she is wearing.
Basically, my hypothesis (technically it’s not a theory until I have a large bundle of documented facts to back it up) is that the more clothes any one girl wears, the more annoying she is. But if she takes off a few layers of clothes, she automatically becomes less annoying. Unfortunately I don’t have enough data to devise an exact mathematical formula to express this interaction. I am still collecting evidence from the field to back up my hypothesis and conclude my aforementioned formula. This is an important project to a cynical man like myself who firmly believes the mass majority of humanity was placed on Earth simply to annoy me. If I can find a mathematical way to make women less annoying, well then that’s just gravy. Suffice it to say, until I come up with that formula, I will continue to be on top of it.
This year, however, I am not choosing to focus large amounts of time and energy into a project that is not totally (or even partially) approved by any major scientific institution. This year, I’m focusing my efforts on something even more important: myself. Let’s be honest here, if I don’t look out for Number One, who will? So without further distractions from chicks wearing far too many clothes, here they are (in order of the number of beers I had to drink to come up with the resolution):
1. Write more, and do more serious writing
2. Get my life put together
3. Play more video games (seriously)
4. Wear pants more often
Ok, let’s just start out at number one. And this is my original resolution that I came up with before drinking any beer whatsoever. Occasionally I can come up with thoughts without involving alcohol in the processes. It just doesn’t happen very frequently. As much as I enjoy writing these blogs once a week (and I really do) and as good as it has been for me to force myself to be creative at least once a week, I need to do more. If I’m ever to truly reach my dream of writing for a living, this non-income producing column isn’t going to cut it in the long run.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to stop writing It’s Supposed to Be Funny (or the Privette Papers, or whatever you want to call it) in the foreseeable future. I just think that there are other projects that I need to work on if I’m ever to get something published, and more importantly, paid for. Because daddy needs some bacon, though I am willing to take that bacon in cash form. I’ll take actual bacon too, I’m not that picky. Hey, bacon is good stuff. Just as long as it’s none of that faux Canadian bacon. Do you realize that that stuff is actually ham? Is Canada really that much different from the US that they have to resort to trying to pass off ham as bacon?
Resolution number two is closely tied to the first one. I have been a huge bum ever since graduating from college. I avoid getting a real job and a real life like everyone else probably because I’m scared I’ll actually grow up. And let’s be honest, being a grown up sucks, there’s far too much responsibility involved. I just don’t see the point in settling down right now. But the fact remains, I can’t keep being a huge bum for the rest of my life. For one thing, it’s hard to pick up chicks when you’re a bum, even if their pants do come off readily.
My first resolution is to write more. My second resolution is to turn that writing into money. I need to quit being a pansy about rejection and start trying to get this stuff published. Or I could just win the lottery. I’d be cool with that too. I think I could survive a few years off of 100 million dollars or so. The only downside is that taxes on 100 million dollars are a real pain in the ass. The government really knows how to take the fun out of winning the lottery.
The third resolution I came up with was after about my forth beer of the night, but really, I could have come up with this vow without the help of my special muse. And yes, I am being serious. The problem is that I have far too many video games that have piled up that haven’t been beaten yet. If I’m ever going to get through all these games before I go out and buy more (and trust me, I will buy more, I’m just a whore like that) I need to start making it a priority to play games more often.
I only need one more dungeon to beat The Legend of Zelda, the Twilight Princess on the Wii. Also on the Wii I need to play through Red Steel, which I’ve barely even touched. For the Playstation 2 (even if I did win 100 million dollars in the NC state lottery, I still wouldn’t have enough money to buy the Playstation 3), I need to play more Guitar Hero 2, and I’ve recently acquired Final Fantasy XII, which I’m sure is going to absorb my soul. There’s also the remake of Final Fantasy III (originally an NES game) for my Nintendo DS. So many high quality games, so little time. And yes, this is important. It’s still one of my biggest regrets that I have yet to beat Super Mario Brothers 3 (you know the game for the NES where you get the raccoon tail and the tanooki suit).
Finally we come to fourth resolution: I really do need to wear pants more often. The problem is, I’ve been living by myself for just about a year now, and since there’s no one around for me to worry about, I tend to go without pants for extended periods of time. If there’s no one here, that’s not a big deal. But after about eight beers with my friends, I tend to get a bit… uncomfortable. I’m not saying that my pants come off after eight beers, but I do ponder the existential existence of my lower legging material. And to be perfectly honest, you probably don’t want to know any more than that. Sometimes, saying less really is more.
Well, there you have it. I look inside at my most ponderous and profound thoughts. Just try not to look too deep or read too much into it. Trust me, there’s not much there. There’s just an enormous empty feeling from not beating Super Mario Bros. 3. Seriously, what guy from my generation hasn’t beaten that game? These are the things that keep me up at night…
See, I told you not to delve too deep. Maybe next time you should listen to me.
Basically, my hypothesis (technically it’s not a theory until I have a large bundle of documented facts to back it up) is that the more clothes any one girl wears, the more annoying she is. But if she takes off a few layers of clothes, she automatically becomes less annoying. Unfortunately I don’t have enough data to devise an exact mathematical formula to express this interaction. I am still collecting evidence from the field to back up my hypothesis and conclude my aforementioned formula. This is an important project to a cynical man like myself who firmly believes the mass majority of humanity was placed on Earth simply to annoy me. If I can find a mathematical way to make women less annoying, well then that’s just gravy. Suffice it to say, until I come up with that formula, I will continue to be on top of it.
This year, however, I am not choosing to focus large amounts of time and energy into a project that is not totally (or even partially) approved by any major scientific institution. This year, I’m focusing my efforts on something even more important: myself. Let’s be honest here, if I don’t look out for Number One, who will? So without further distractions from chicks wearing far too many clothes, here they are (in order of the number of beers I had to drink to come up with the resolution):
1. Write more, and do more serious writing
2. Get my life put together
3. Play more video games (seriously)
4. Wear pants more often
Ok, let’s just start out at number one. And this is my original resolution that I came up with before drinking any beer whatsoever. Occasionally I can come up with thoughts without involving alcohol in the processes. It just doesn’t happen very frequently. As much as I enjoy writing these blogs once a week (and I really do) and as good as it has been for me to force myself to be creative at least once a week, I need to do more. If I’m ever to truly reach my dream of writing for a living, this non-income producing column isn’t going to cut it in the long run.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to stop writing It’s Supposed to Be Funny (or the Privette Papers, or whatever you want to call it) in the foreseeable future. I just think that there are other projects that I need to work on if I’m ever to get something published, and more importantly, paid for. Because daddy needs some bacon, though I am willing to take that bacon in cash form. I’ll take actual bacon too, I’m not that picky. Hey, bacon is good stuff. Just as long as it’s none of that faux Canadian bacon. Do you realize that that stuff is actually ham? Is Canada really that much different from the US that they have to resort to trying to pass off ham as bacon?
Resolution number two is closely tied to the first one. I have been a huge bum ever since graduating from college. I avoid getting a real job and a real life like everyone else probably because I’m scared I’ll actually grow up. And let’s be honest, being a grown up sucks, there’s far too much responsibility involved. I just don’t see the point in settling down right now. But the fact remains, I can’t keep being a huge bum for the rest of my life. For one thing, it’s hard to pick up chicks when you’re a bum, even if their pants do come off readily.
My first resolution is to write more. My second resolution is to turn that writing into money. I need to quit being a pansy about rejection and start trying to get this stuff published. Or I could just win the lottery. I’d be cool with that too. I think I could survive a few years off of 100 million dollars or so. The only downside is that taxes on 100 million dollars are a real pain in the ass. The government really knows how to take the fun out of winning the lottery.
The third resolution I came up with was after about my forth beer of the night, but really, I could have come up with this vow without the help of my special muse. And yes, I am being serious. The problem is that I have far too many video games that have piled up that haven’t been beaten yet. If I’m ever going to get through all these games before I go out and buy more (and trust me, I will buy more, I’m just a whore like that) I need to start making it a priority to play games more often.
I only need one more dungeon to beat The Legend of Zelda, the Twilight Princess on the Wii. Also on the Wii I need to play through Red Steel, which I’ve barely even touched. For the Playstation 2 (even if I did win 100 million dollars in the NC state lottery, I still wouldn’t have enough money to buy the Playstation 3), I need to play more Guitar Hero 2, and I’ve recently acquired Final Fantasy XII, which I’m sure is going to absorb my soul. There’s also the remake of Final Fantasy III (originally an NES game) for my Nintendo DS. So many high quality games, so little time. And yes, this is important. It’s still one of my biggest regrets that I have yet to beat Super Mario Brothers 3 (you know the game for the NES where you get the raccoon tail and the tanooki suit).
Finally we come to fourth resolution: I really do need to wear pants more often. The problem is, I’ve been living by myself for just about a year now, and since there’s no one around for me to worry about, I tend to go without pants for extended periods of time. If there’s no one here, that’s not a big deal. But after about eight beers with my friends, I tend to get a bit… uncomfortable. I’m not saying that my pants come off after eight beers, but I do ponder the existential existence of my lower legging material. And to be perfectly honest, you probably don’t want to know any more than that. Sometimes, saying less really is more.
Well, there you have it. I look inside at my most ponderous and profound thoughts. Just try not to look too deep or read too much into it. Trust me, there’s not much there. There’s just an enormous empty feeling from not beating Super Mario Bros. 3. Seriously, what guy from my generation hasn’t beaten that game? These are the things that keep me up at night…
See, I told you not to delve too deep. Maybe next time you should listen to me.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
It’s All Been Done Before
Apparently everyone is watching this new show called Heroes on NBC. I don’t have much time for TV, especially at night, so I don’t watch all that many shows. But apparently all those normal people who do have time for prime time television tune in every Monday at 9pm to watch. So this week I flipped over to watch part of the show, in between quarters of Monday Night Football, to see what it was all about.
My first impression: I think someone owes Stan Lee some money. The story revolves around regular, everyday people who turn out to have extraordinary powers that they use in an effort to stop some future calamity. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen that same storyline before. I could be that it’s been done several times in the Uncanny X-Men which originally appeared back in September of 1963 (and yes, I am that big of a nerd). It’s nice to see that Hollywood writers are being so original these days.
Let’s take a quick look at the characters of this Heroes show. One has the ability to spontaneously heal, just like Wolverine. One guy can enter into a precognitive trance and is capable of revealing the future. That sounds like Destiny. One guy can phase through solid objects just like Shadow Cat (also known as Kitty Pride). There’s a chick that can psychically get people to do her bidding just by talking to them. Heck, Professor Xavier could do that without having to talk. Oh and there’s a guy who can temporarily copy the powers of any other super powered being he is around. Yeah, that was Mimic, who enjoyed a very brief stint with the original mutant X-Men (even though he wasn’t a mutant himself, his mimicry powers were gained in a chemical accident).
Now I know that the X-Men have enjoyed a rather long career in popular culture, and I’m sure it would be hard to come up with a superhero that Marvel hasn’t already covered. But seriously, what did the writers do when they originally came up with this show? Did they get high, read a few comic books and think, “Hey, let’s have a show with superheroes!” Because, honestly, that’s how I pictured this whole thing happening.
And kudos to all of you viewers out there that are tuning in every week to make Heroes such a popular show. I mean, it’s not as if mainstream culture has looked down upon comic books as not only childish, but also as a contributor to juvenile delinquency and a factor in crimes committed by minors. Yes, comic books are destroying the minds of your children. But it’s perfectly acceptable to have the exact same storyline and themes in a television show. I don’t see any hypocrisy there. Nope. None at all.
There is one thing that is really bothering me about this show. This whole “Save the cheerleader, save the world,” line is totally uncalled for. I know that cheerleaders are very popular in this country and yes, we all love them. But when is it ever possible that the fate of the entire planet hinges on a cheerleader? I’m sorry, but I just cannot accept that. The studio execs are feeding on the baser instincts of their viewers by offering up this cheerleader style fantasy. I’m pretty sure this sort of thing in comic books is deemed unacceptable by the populace.
Oh, and the cheerleader, the one with the Wolverine-like healing factor, she’s supposed to be a high school kid who’s only about 17 years old. She’s also one of the few powered females of the cast, and apparently, the most important one. So they’ve dressed up a 17 year old girl and put her in a cheerleading outfit so she can prance around during a timeslot reserved for an older, more mature audience. I’ll like to congratulate NBC for turning out quality TV for pedophiles everywhere. Good job.
I think that the X-Men comics were a much better entertainment venue than this TV show. Mainly, I believe that the Uncanny X-Men were a much deeper and socially motivated enterprise than Heroes. See, the original X-Men comic book debuted in 1963, as I noted earlier, and coincided with the civil rights movement. Even though the original cast of the X-Men was a strikingly homogeneous mix of white protestant types, the relations of mutants to normal humans in the comic bore an intense similarity to the race relations of the day. The hatred and animosity that many normal humans had towards mutants is an artistic symbolism to the civil rights movement and to the plight of minorities in general. The comic series is intended mainly for entertainment value but it obviously includes much deeper social motifs. The TV show “Heroes,” however, is merely exploiting the superhero archetype in order to gain viewers.
I’d also like to point out one other quick reason why X-Men is a better franchise. Colossus could easily kick the crap out of all of the characters on Heroes. Heck, he could probably take them all at once. Not only was he the only mutant capable of standing up to the Unstoppable Juggernaut (whose powers were demonic, not mutant), but he also had a kickin’ Russian accent. This is why he is the coolest mutant ever, not Wolverine. Yes, I know that Wolverine is the big favorite and all, but really, he’s just overrated.
I mean, Wolverine is from Canada for crying out loud (or as I like to call it, American Jr.). Heck, I’m surprised that Department H never used the samples of his blood so they could recreate his healing factor in all Canadians as a part of their nationalized healthcare. Honestly, that would save the taxpayers millions of dollars every year and probably also provide superior healthcare. Hey, that kind of progressive healthcare plan worked wonders for Deadpool, it cured up his cancer real quick.
I do have to say one good thing about Heroes. It comes on right before my favorite show Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip at 10pm. This show has everything: great acting, good original story, and most importantly, amazing writing. It is intelligent, quick paced, and very funny. The show is an entire hour long but I think it’s far too short and doesn’t do the show justice. Hey, it may not have any superheroes or 17 year old cheerleaders, but trust me on this one, I was 17 once, and those high school cheerleaders are totally not worth it.
My first impression: I think someone owes Stan Lee some money. The story revolves around regular, everyday people who turn out to have extraordinary powers that they use in an effort to stop some future calamity. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen that same storyline before. I could be that it’s been done several times in the Uncanny X-Men which originally appeared back in September of 1963 (and yes, I am that big of a nerd). It’s nice to see that Hollywood writers are being so original these days.
Let’s take a quick look at the characters of this Heroes show. One has the ability to spontaneously heal, just like Wolverine. One guy can enter into a precognitive trance and is capable of revealing the future. That sounds like Destiny. One guy can phase through solid objects just like Shadow Cat (also known as Kitty Pride). There’s a chick that can psychically get people to do her bidding just by talking to them. Heck, Professor Xavier could do that without having to talk. Oh and there’s a guy who can temporarily copy the powers of any other super powered being he is around. Yeah, that was Mimic, who enjoyed a very brief stint with the original mutant X-Men (even though he wasn’t a mutant himself, his mimicry powers were gained in a chemical accident).
Now I know that the X-Men have enjoyed a rather long career in popular culture, and I’m sure it would be hard to come up with a superhero that Marvel hasn’t already covered. But seriously, what did the writers do when they originally came up with this show? Did they get high, read a few comic books and think, “Hey, let’s have a show with superheroes!” Because, honestly, that’s how I pictured this whole thing happening.
And kudos to all of you viewers out there that are tuning in every week to make Heroes such a popular show. I mean, it’s not as if mainstream culture has looked down upon comic books as not only childish, but also as a contributor to juvenile delinquency and a factor in crimes committed by minors. Yes, comic books are destroying the minds of your children. But it’s perfectly acceptable to have the exact same storyline and themes in a television show. I don’t see any hypocrisy there. Nope. None at all.
There is one thing that is really bothering me about this show. This whole “Save the cheerleader, save the world,” line is totally uncalled for. I know that cheerleaders are very popular in this country and yes, we all love them. But when is it ever possible that the fate of the entire planet hinges on a cheerleader? I’m sorry, but I just cannot accept that. The studio execs are feeding on the baser instincts of their viewers by offering up this cheerleader style fantasy. I’m pretty sure this sort of thing in comic books is deemed unacceptable by the populace.
Oh, and the cheerleader, the one with the Wolverine-like healing factor, she’s supposed to be a high school kid who’s only about 17 years old. She’s also one of the few powered females of the cast, and apparently, the most important one. So they’ve dressed up a 17 year old girl and put her in a cheerleading outfit so she can prance around during a timeslot reserved for an older, more mature audience. I’ll like to congratulate NBC for turning out quality TV for pedophiles everywhere. Good job.
I think that the X-Men comics were a much better entertainment venue than this TV show. Mainly, I believe that the Uncanny X-Men were a much deeper and socially motivated enterprise than Heroes. See, the original X-Men comic book debuted in 1963, as I noted earlier, and coincided with the civil rights movement. Even though the original cast of the X-Men was a strikingly homogeneous mix of white protestant types, the relations of mutants to normal humans in the comic bore an intense similarity to the race relations of the day. The hatred and animosity that many normal humans had towards mutants is an artistic symbolism to the civil rights movement and to the plight of minorities in general. The comic series is intended mainly for entertainment value but it obviously includes much deeper social motifs. The TV show “Heroes,” however, is merely exploiting the superhero archetype in order to gain viewers.
I’d also like to point out one other quick reason why X-Men is a better franchise. Colossus could easily kick the crap out of all of the characters on Heroes. Heck, he could probably take them all at once. Not only was he the only mutant capable of standing up to the Unstoppable Juggernaut (whose powers were demonic, not mutant), but he also had a kickin’ Russian accent. This is why he is the coolest mutant ever, not Wolverine. Yes, I know that Wolverine is the big favorite and all, but really, he’s just overrated.
I mean, Wolverine is from Canada for crying out loud (or as I like to call it, American Jr.). Heck, I’m surprised that Department H never used the samples of his blood so they could recreate his healing factor in all Canadians as a part of their nationalized healthcare. Honestly, that would save the taxpayers millions of dollars every year and probably also provide superior healthcare. Hey, that kind of progressive healthcare plan worked wonders for Deadpool, it cured up his cancer real quick.
I do have to say one good thing about Heroes. It comes on right before my favorite show Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip at 10pm. This show has everything: great acting, good original story, and most importantly, amazing writing. It is intelligent, quick paced, and very funny. The show is an entire hour long but I think it’s far too short and doesn’t do the show justice. Hey, it may not have any superheroes or 17 year old cheerleaders, but trust me on this one, I was 17 once, and those high school cheerleaders are totally not worth it.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Hurry Christmas, Hurry Fast
Listen closely because I’m only going to say this once: If I stab someone before New Years, don’t be surprised. No really, I’m going to stab someone, I’m just becoming that crazy. I could stab myself, but honestly, that would hurt too much. And I’m really not into the whole masochistic thing anyway.
Yes, I realize that it is getting colder outside, and yes I realize that everyone looks forward throughout the year to Christmas. But there is a rule that I strictly follow: Do not play Christmas music until after Thanksgiving. You could say it’s an unwritten rule and that you don’t have to follow rules that have yet to be set in stone. Well guess what, I just wrote it down and you just read it. So from now on, please adhere to it.
You may be aware that general elections were yesterday. I hope you all went out and voted. Although, I’m not one to vote down party lines or vote for who was going to give the most tax cuts or spend the money on the most welfare programs or anything silly like that. Instead, it’s better to vote for whoever I think would be most likely to support a bill making it illegal to play Christmas music before the Thanksgiving holiday. This is a real issue people. Do you really want guys like me running around with sharp objects feeling the need to draw blood from someone just because we had to listen to the Christina Aguilera Christmas album 13,427 times in a row (and yes, I have been counting)?
The answer is simple: vote to imprison those who play holiday music with impunity. Everyone is getting so worked up about whether or not our military is actually torturing prisoners of war at
But I can’t just stop there. No, there are far too many atrocities being committed by everyday Americans throughout the month of November. Some people even have the audacity to put out their Christmas lights before Thanksgiving. It’s blasphemy I tell you! Anyone who puts up their lights before they begin baking their turkey is un-American. There, I said it. It is acceptable to cook a duck or a ham instead of the traditional turkey. However, an entirely vegetarian Thanksgiving dinner is right out. Those people insisting on preparing alternate foodstuffs instead of meat (for instance: tofurky) for their giving-of-thanks day should immediately be put on the terrorist watch list by the Department of Homeland Security. The pilgrims ate turkeys, damn-it. They didn’t struggle to survive through frigid
I think the overlying problem here is that Thanksgiving is getting overlooked as a major American holiday. Everyone gets wound up for Halloween and trick-or-treating and dressing up and whatnot, then afterward, people only want to think about Christmas. And I know that no one outside of the
Thanksgiving is the time for family and friends to get together. It is also a time to reminisce about the things you are thankful for in your life. There is a reason it’s called “Thanksgiving” you know. This is why you’re supposed to go home for Thanksgiving, so you can spend time with your family that you have been neglecting all year long. I’m pretty sure most of these holiday traditions were invented in the 1800’s by grandparents who wanted to keep their offspring coming back every year so they wouldn’t get lonely. Although nowadays grandparents lead busy retirement lives: they have to collect Social Security, fill out all those Medicare forms, and generally complain about how computers, video games, and MTV are corrupting today’s youth.
But in the spirit of Thanksgiving, and I truly believe in celebrating and spreading the wholesomeness of this particular holiday, I’m going to list all of the things that I’m thankful for. I’m thankful for next generation video game systems (Wii!), chicks in bikinis, good ol’ fashioned American bourbon, my literally dozens of fans who read this site, chicks in miniskirts, my friends who have actually stuck by me through my many moves and phases of life, chicks in tight pants, and my family, because my mom cooks the best Thanksgiving dinner ever. No seriously, she does. It’s a whole feast complete with no less than three homemade pies every year. My family rocks.
So please, I’m asking you nicely, don’t skip over the great American holiday that is Thanksgiving. Don’t buy into the materialistic hype that has become Christmas right after you finish eating your Halloween candy. Stick with the noble, family oriented November holiday. Hey, it may not be on the same date every year, but by being on a Thursday it practically guarantees you’ll have both Thursday and Friday off of work. And really, can you ask for more than that?
If you don’t respond to niceties and requests, maybe you’ll respond to threats. Don’t forget, I have many sharp and pointed instruments at my disposal and I’m just insane enough to use them on someone. You probably think I should just channel this abusive rage at the manager who insists on playing Christmas music where I work. Well, the problem is: she’s a female, she’s cute, and she is very, very nice. And I’m pretty sure that I’m incapable of harming a nice, attractive woman. Some women just have this strange power like that. It’s really not fair.
And for those of you who insist on putting up your lights and playing your music before November 23rd this year, this is what I have to say to you.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Sunday, It's More Than I Can Stand
I have a problem. Ok, actually, I have several problems, most of which are deep rooted psychological issues that we won’t go into today. No, today we are going to go into my problem with Sunday. No seriously, I have a problem with Sunday. And no, this is not one of my acutely ingrained psychological paranoia either. This is a very real and very serious problem.
Every calendar I have puts Sunday as the beginning of the week. Why is that? Sunday is clearly part of the weekend. And I’m pretty sure the word “weekend” denotes the end of the week. I mean, it says it right there. A day can’t possibly be the first day of the week and the end of the week at the same time. There are only seven days in the week, so you can’t start and end with Sunday (that would make eight days, which is totally and punitively egregious). You can only do one or the other. And before you question whether or not Sunday is actually part of the weekend, I’ve looked on Wikipedia, and it says that Saturday and Sunday are considered the weekend here in the good old US of A. And if there’s one thing I know, if it’s on Wikipedia, it has to be true. I mean, the internet has never lied to me before.
So why does everyone insist on having Sunday as the first day of the week? This is probably because most Christians consider Sunday the Lord’s Day. However, the name “Sunday” originates before Christianity. Apparently it was the Egyptians who originally came up with the whole seven days a week scheme. They gave each day of the week a name corresponding to the seven known celestial objects: the sun, moon, Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Venus, and Mercury. They exported their development to Rome who used their names for the seven heavenly bodies to devise the week we have today.
It makes sense to me. Moon-day is Monday, Saturn-day is Saturday, and Sun-day is Sunday (in case you couldn’t figure that last one out for yourself). In fact, I know in other cultures, both Sunday and Monday are expressed as the sun and the moon. Specifically, in Japanese the symbol for the sun is used to denote Sunday and the character representing the moon is used to refer to Monday. It’s all interesting stuff really, etymology is like that. But that still doesn’t help me with my problem. Why does everyone insist on making Sunday the first day of the week when they all know Sunday is part of the weekend? It boggles the mind!
Seriously, I want you to think about it. I’m sure you’ve spoken of the weekend in conversation while you were referring to Sunday. I’m sure you’ve done it numerous times. Yet you still have no problem saying that the week begins on Sunday. Doesn’t that sound a bit hypocritical? Sunday cannot possibly be the beginning and the end of every week. And the week does not begin in the middle of the weekend. That defeats the whole purpose of having a weekend!
Are you beginning to see my dilemma now? I’m very confused. Not that getting me confused is a difficult task to accomplish, far from it actually. But when I get confused, I tend to get angry. And you wouldn’t like it when I’m angry. When I get angry I get real quiet and tend to keep to myself. I know it’s not as terrifying as a green, 300 pound, mutated freak throwing SUVs at you, but trust me, I’m no fun when I’m quiet. So try not to confuse me or I’ll be forced into seclusion with a bottle of my favorite bourbon. Yet another reason to drink: things are far less confusing when you’re drunk. Mainly, this is because I don’t seem to pay attention to anything while inebriated.
So people, please, I need some help here. We need to sit down and decide once and for all whether Sunday is indeed the first day of the week or a celebrated part of the weekend. It can’t be both. For my sanity’s sake, we have to choose one or the other. I’d like to quickly point out that there is absolutely nothing wrong with beginning the week with Monday. In fact, most European countries already do this. Usually I hate to agree with anyone who isn’t America, but I think Europe has the right idea here. Computers seem to agree too. ISO 8601, which I’m told is the international standard for date and time representation (I wouldn’t know for sure, I mean I’m a nerd, but I’m not that big of a nerd), places Monday at the start of the week and Sunday at the end.
There are some good arguments for keeping Sunday as the first day, however. Our good buddy America Jr. (pronounced as “Canada” by some) starts its week off with Sunday. Additionally, Judeo-Christian, Egyptian, and Roman traditions all place Sunday at the commencement of the week. I mean, if we got the whole seven days in a week thing from the Egyptians and Romans maybe we should keep their order the same as well. They seemed to know what they were doing with the whole calendar thing. Well, except for Leap Year. Seriously, how does adding an additional day to the calendar every four years make sense?
I realize that we’re trying to keep the calendar year in synch with the vernal equinox. And that’s cool with me. We don’t need December falling in the middle of the summer, which is what would happen in a couple of thousand or so years if we didn’t have a Leap Year. I mean, who wants to celebrate Christmas in the blistering heat and humidity? Well, besides the Australians, whose seasons are the opposite of ours because they decided to put their country on the wrong side of the equator. Would you want a zero percent chance of a White Christmas? I think not. But why should I be forced to remember every four years to add an additional day to my calendar just because the Romans couldn’t come up with a more accurate way of measuring time relative to this vernal equinox thing?
Heck, even with the Leap Year instated we’re still off a little over 0.0001 days every year. As it turns out, we’re not very good at keeping track of time. Did you know that last year one additional second ticked by just before the New Year? That means that instead of having the usual 31,536,000 seconds in a normal year (non Leap Year) we had 31,536,001 seconds in 2005. We are supposedly skipping a second in certain years in order to keep our clocks in synch with the rotation of the Earth. The Earth is apparently slowing down its rotation which makes the days just a little bit longer. I don’t know why we have to let the Earth’s rotation push us around on how we handle our clocks. I think we should simply correct Earth’s rotation instead. I’m sure we have the technology to speed up Earth’s rotation if we wanted to. And while we’re at it, we should fix whatever astrological problem is throwing off our calendar. As far as I’m concerned, the cosmos should conform to us, not the other way around.
But then again, time is a relative thing. We add an extra day or an extra second here and there in an attempt to match certain astrological phenomenon. This doesn’t mean that time is slowing down or that we magically get another day in February every four years. It just means that’s how we choose to measure it. And really, is how we measure time that important? What’s important is how we spend our time. Personally, I choose to spend my time campaigning to move Sunday behind Saturday at the end of the week where it rightfully belongs. I can’t accept a world where the weekend is at the beginning of the week. And yes, I’m still confused and I’m still upset with that. Like I said before, I have problems. Petty as they may be, they’re still problems.
Every calendar I have puts Sunday as the beginning of the week. Why is that? Sunday is clearly part of the weekend. And I’m pretty sure the word “weekend” denotes the end of the week. I mean, it says it right there. A day can’t possibly be the first day of the week and the end of the week at the same time. There are only seven days in the week, so you can’t start and end with Sunday (that would make eight days, which is totally and punitively egregious). You can only do one or the other. And before you question whether or not Sunday is actually part of the weekend, I’ve looked on Wikipedia, and it says that Saturday and Sunday are considered the weekend here in the good old US of A. And if there’s one thing I know, if it’s on Wikipedia, it has to be true. I mean, the internet has never lied to me before.
So why does everyone insist on having Sunday as the first day of the week? This is probably because most Christians consider Sunday the Lord’s Day. However, the name “Sunday” originates before Christianity. Apparently it was the Egyptians who originally came up with the whole seven days a week scheme. They gave each day of the week a name corresponding to the seven known celestial objects: the sun, moon, Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Venus, and Mercury. They exported their development to Rome who used their names for the seven heavenly bodies to devise the week we have today.
It makes sense to me. Moon-day is Monday, Saturn-day is Saturday, and Sun-day is Sunday (in case you couldn’t figure that last one out for yourself). In fact, I know in other cultures, both Sunday and Monday are expressed as the sun and the moon. Specifically, in Japanese the symbol for the sun is used to denote Sunday and the character representing the moon is used to refer to Monday. It’s all interesting stuff really, etymology is like that. But that still doesn’t help me with my problem. Why does everyone insist on making Sunday the first day of the week when they all know Sunday is part of the weekend? It boggles the mind!
Seriously, I want you to think about it. I’m sure you’ve spoken of the weekend in conversation while you were referring to Sunday. I’m sure you’ve done it numerous times. Yet you still have no problem saying that the week begins on Sunday. Doesn’t that sound a bit hypocritical? Sunday cannot possibly be the beginning and the end of every week. And the week does not begin in the middle of the weekend. That defeats the whole purpose of having a weekend!
Are you beginning to see my dilemma now? I’m very confused. Not that getting me confused is a difficult task to accomplish, far from it actually. But when I get confused, I tend to get angry. And you wouldn’t like it when I’m angry. When I get angry I get real quiet and tend to keep to myself. I know it’s not as terrifying as a green, 300 pound, mutated freak throwing SUVs at you, but trust me, I’m no fun when I’m quiet. So try not to confuse me or I’ll be forced into seclusion with a bottle of my favorite bourbon. Yet another reason to drink: things are far less confusing when you’re drunk. Mainly, this is because I don’t seem to pay attention to anything while inebriated.
So people, please, I need some help here. We need to sit down and decide once and for all whether Sunday is indeed the first day of the week or a celebrated part of the weekend. It can’t be both. For my sanity’s sake, we have to choose one or the other. I’d like to quickly point out that there is absolutely nothing wrong with beginning the week with Monday. In fact, most European countries already do this. Usually I hate to agree with anyone who isn’t America, but I think Europe has the right idea here. Computers seem to agree too. ISO 8601, which I’m told is the international standard for date and time representation (I wouldn’t know for sure, I mean I’m a nerd, but I’m not that big of a nerd), places Monday at the start of the week and Sunday at the end.
There are some good arguments for keeping Sunday as the first day, however. Our good buddy America Jr. (pronounced as “Canada” by some) starts its week off with Sunday. Additionally, Judeo-Christian, Egyptian, and Roman traditions all place Sunday at the commencement of the week. I mean, if we got the whole seven days in a week thing from the Egyptians and Romans maybe we should keep their order the same as well. They seemed to know what they were doing with the whole calendar thing. Well, except for Leap Year. Seriously, how does adding an additional day to the calendar every four years make sense?
I realize that we’re trying to keep the calendar year in synch with the vernal equinox. And that’s cool with me. We don’t need December falling in the middle of the summer, which is what would happen in a couple of thousand or so years if we didn’t have a Leap Year. I mean, who wants to celebrate Christmas in the blistering heat and humidity? Well, besides the Australians, whose seasons are the opposite of ours because they decided to put their country on the wrong side of the equator. Would you want a zero percent chance of a White Christmas? I think not. But why should I be forced to remember every four years to add an additional day to my calendar just because the Romans couldn’t come up with a more accurate way of measuring time relative to this vernal equinox thing?
Heck, even with the Leap Year instated we’re still off a little over 0.0001 days every year. As it turns out, we’re not very good at keeping track of time. Did you know that last year one additional second ticked by just before the New Year? That means that instead of having the usual 31,536,000 seconds in a normal year (non Leap Year) we had 31,536,001 seconds in 2005. We are supposedly skipping a second in certain years in order to keep our clocks in synch with the rotation of the Earth. The Earth is apparently slowing down its rotation which makes the days just a little bit longer. I don’t know why we have to let the Earth’s rotation push us around on how we handle our clocks. I think we should simply correct Earth’s rotation instead. I’m sure we have the technology to speed up Earth’s rotation if we wanted to. And while we’re at it, we should fix whatever astrological problem is throwing off our calendar. As far as I’m concerned, the cosmos should conform to us, not the other way around.
But then again, time is a relative thing. We add an extra day or an extra second here and there in an attempt to match certain astrological phenomenon. This doesn’t mean that time is slowing down or that we magically get another day in February every four years. It just means that’s how we choose to measure it. And really, is how we measure time that important? What’s important is how we spend our time. Personally, I choose to spend my time campaigning to move Sunday behind Saturday at the end of the week where it rightfully belongs. I can’t accept a world where the weekend is at the beginning of the week. And yes, I’m still confused and I’m still upset with that. Like I said before, I have problems. Petty as they may be, they’re still problems.
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