Culture Shock

Despite the fact that it often seems to be a popular sport amongst others to tell people that I spend 100% of my time on assassination missions, people who know me well frequently know that I rarely kill people.

That said, traveling to other countries is often an odd experience for me.

Many of you already know that I spent the past several weeks in southeastern Asia for reasons that can be best described as “unclear.” Coincidentally, the nations I was visiting experienced government upheavals, riots, and a sudden, dramatic upswing in the value of the US dollar, just as I was leaving. (All true.) This part of the world, along with many others, contains many street vendors. Compared to these street vendors, my skin is a shade of luminescent white akin to a fluorescent light bulb. To them, that extra brightness often stands for “Big Bucks.”

That would be fine, except that the dazzling bright light reflecting from my pearly exterior can wake even the most comatose of street vendors from great distances. Startled from his or her boring slumber, the vendor springs to life, usually yelling something that is presumably more or less English, and means something along the lines of, “Hey big boy! Me love you wallet long time! Love you wallet long time!” This response to my opalescence is the same regardless of the product being offered. From an outstanding tailored suit at an amazing price (desirable) to a sickly-looking live frog in a food market (customs-hostile), all vendors feel that I will clearly want to buy several of all of their goods, if they can simply get my attention.

Some of them are right. And the ones who are incorrect do not (in my opinion) need to be told otherwise. I’m totally fine letting night markets do their thing without ranting about how they should be more like shopping malls.

However…

As promised by the early ramblings of the setup, there is a slight exception. Sometimes, a product being offered looks very good from afar and I take a closer look. Upon inspection, I discover that what looked like a 70 carat diamond from nine paces is actually something coughed up by the ice bucket dripping onto the floor. No longer interested, I exit the store. Having never spoken to anyone inside or made eye contact, I assume that my browsing was not noticed. Then, suddenly, I hear someone behind shouting very loudly at me.

“Oh, how quaint!” I think to myself. “A local wants to fight me to the death!”

As I turn, preparing to extract his tonsils via his bellybutton, I discover (to my surprise) that his facial expression is not even remotely hostile. I pause my planned evisceration just long enough to discover that the merchant felt that I was expertly opening a fierce negotiation process regarding a cup of old ice.

I have not yet discovered an entirely graceful solution to this situation.

More Sick, Disgusting Pedophiles

Regular readers know that this topic really pisses me off. We’re seeing a huge wave in child pornography lately, and it’s just sick. Turns out, that a new demographic has nearly usurped this horrible, repulsive rape-a-riffic human slave trade.

It’s the 12-17 year old demographic.

To quote CNN, “Authorities trying to identify youngsters in naked photos are increasingly discovering that the teens themselves took the shots, said John Shehan, a director at the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.”

http://www.cnn.com/2008/CRIME/06/04/naked.teens.ap/index.html

That’s it. We need to put a stop to this RIGHT NOW. I propose we jail all people between the ages of 11 and 17. It’s the only way that they’ll learn that their bodies are sick, disgusting abominations. Somehow or other, this message just isn’t getting through to them until the FBI shows up and arrests them for putting child pornography (of themselves) on the internet.

After all, the letter of the law clearly defines this sort of activity as exploitation (of one’s self). That’s an unforgivable offence. What we need to do is arrest these children and put “child pornographer” on their life-long criminal record. Otherwise, it’s just going to ruin their lives.

That’s what the system is for. To protect these children from horrible people like themselves.

I See the Patterns That No One Else Sees

Kudos if you get the reference.

Getting to the point, I’d like to take this blog post to identify a pattern that seems to be developing, that I am really enjoying.

2008 has been the year where fate has decided that my history should no longer imply that I am a xenophobic homeboy. Instead, the ridiculous amount of travel is causing my history to imply that I am a homeland-fearing (home-a-phobic?) vagrant. One of the consequences of this is that I have started a fascinating course of vaccinations. This seems to be confusing both my insurance company and my body.

What I have noticed is that every day that I get a new vaccination (and I’ve had several at this point), I come home, binge eat, and fall asleep insanely early. I send the next 11-12 hours unconscious, having ridiculously vivid dreams.

I usually remember my dreams. This is why I am making the connection. There are two things about the vaccination dreams that have made them especially enjoyable. First, they’re really long. I’ve been annoying a bunch of friends lately by sending them links to “Dreamtoons” which reminded me of their personality or situations somehow. For those of you who have no idea what “Dreamtoons” are, they’re individual webcomics created from interesting memories people have recorded in dream journals. Taken individually, they’re usually pretty surreal and not very funny. But once you embrace the premise of the dreamworld, these comics become increasingly amusing. Especially if you can remember what your own dreams are like. The point of this seeming-digression is that most dreams can be easily summarized into a four panel comic. They’re not long. They do not feature epic plot arcs. If they develop a premise at all, they get to the point quickly, even if it doesn’t make sense. In contrast, the dreams I’ve been having that coincide with vaccinations have been intense. The one I had last night I thought (incorrectly) was a complete reenactment of a 600 page novel. (I made a good connection between the length of the two stories, but I have no clue whatsoever how my subconscious linked the plots. It’d be like saying, “Sure, the two stories are identical! Just like ‘Star Wars’ and ‘The Lion King!’”)

Second, the dreams I have been having were downright believable. Generally, dreams have a large element of the surreal to them. Not these. One of my goals for 2008 is to crank out a novel, just to see how well that turns out. When I woke up, I seriously considered simply transcribing the story I had been conjuring up for the past few hours and calling this fait accompli. I killed this idea when I realized that I would be the only person on Earth who would not be alarmed to find the general social premises at work so unabashedly espoused by a plurality of the characters.

Anyway, once I run out of relevant vaccines, I wonder if I can just keep getting other shots to continue the effect. “Doctor, I need the anthrax vaccine. I, uh, expect to be exposed to some really bad beef in a few months, and it’ll make me feel like V.C. Andrews.” Probably not.

Magnets

While visiting a friend recently, I noticed he had a clear plastic magnet on his doorframe.

Great setup for a story, right? I'm AMAZING with my premises.

Actually, we'll see. I might pull this off yet. Back in undergrad, my sense of humor was similar to what it is now. But in those days, my dad liked to take me to Sam's Club to buy staples. One such visit, I wanted a few magnets for my door. By this, I mean, I wanted maybe a dozen magnets of different colors. I got them. Along with maybe 500 extras that were bundled with them. I took them back to the dorm, and did nothing with them for a couple of days.

Later, after a coffee or something, I took my dozen magnets out into the hallway and put them up on my door. At about 3:00 AM. Then I laughed. I had had an idea. Taking with me about 50 of my extras, I wandered down the hall attaching them at random to various people's doors, pipes, and anything else to which they'd stick.

The next day, I heard two people asking where the free magnets came from. I played dumb.

That night, I took another 50 out and added them to the magnets already out there.

The next day, curiousity was higher, but still subdued.

Another 50.

This time, people got very interested. My favorite theory was that the magnets were being used as some kind of code to 'mark' people. (Not everyone was getting the same number or color of magnets.) Two people took to taking them off their doors and putting theirs on their neighbor's doors. One person simply took hers inside and kept them.

Another 50.

I kept this up for a week, much to the amusement, horror, dismay, and/or exasperation of my hallmates. Finally, when I ran out of extras, I let the secret slip to a couple of friends. They laughed, and passed it on.

Within hours, everyone agreed that the magnets were, and had always been, completely uninteresting.

People are funny.

Animals Make Retarded Pets

I’m not going to mince words on this one. Animals are dumb.

I don’t usually take a strong stance on this, but recently, a couple of striking examples have brought the topic to mind and left me bitter. Both of these examples make for great stories.

Example one: My sister’s dog is retarded.
For reasons unclear to me, my sister adopted a retarded puppy. Not medically retarded, mind you. No, it’s a charming mutt in perfect health. However, by my standards, it’s retarded. It greets guests by first jumping all over them. This is wonderful in and of itself. But when it tires of that, it takes it a step further by first leaping onto furniture (like a couch), then launching itself at them from this new height. That’s extra special. I love that dog.

My sister also lives in a house that has a trampoline in the backyard. Trampolines are great fun. They help you jump really high by letting you launch off of an elastic pad. But when you jump, that elastic pad drops down really low. That’s why trampoline pads are always up on stands. Guess who thinks it’s a great idea to stand underneath the trampoline, dead center, and bark his fool head off at jumpers as they rocket down onto his head?

My sister’s place also features mirrored closet doors. Guess who’s not allowed into the bedroom, because he sees his reflection and barks and leaps at it for hours before having to be forcibly separated from his own reflection.

In conclusion, my sister’s dog is retarded.

Example two: Geese are retarded.
It will come as no surprise to regular readers that I work at a chemical plant. This chemical plant has a man-made lake in the middle, which is used as fire water in the event of a major emergency. Since this is basically never used, we really just have a big lake in the middle of the complex. Geese like big calm lakes.

Geese also like to nest by them. One lovely couple decided to do just that. They build a beautiful nest, five feet away from the contractor entrance to the main engineering building.

That would be a beautiful example of nature in action, save for one minor issue. Nesting geese are fiercely territorial. Guess who spends all of every day attacking an endless stream of less-than-amused contractors?

This choice of locales was very well chosen. In the same way that an antisocial hermit could find a very well chosen living space in the middle of the food court in a busy shopping mall.

To be fair, there are small sections of the day when there are no contractors to attack. The goose spends those sections of the day attacking its own reflection in the glass panes of the nearby doors, and on the reflective surfaces of newly-washed cars.

In conclusion, geese are retarded.

There are times when I think nature is wondrous and beautiful. But there are also striking examples of why humans don’t generally feel bad about strip mining and deforestation. Today seems like a good day to pillage some rainforest.

English Accents Are For the Retarded

Ok, I feel this needs to be said. There are way too many people who have bought into the idea that English accents are sexy and/or intellectual.

I will start by qualifying my argument. I have no issue with the Queen’s English. The woman understands the rules of English correctly, follows them, is very polite, and is terminally dull. These are all things that a woman in her position should be. She uses her English very professionally and sounds highly educated, even if she rarely seems to have anything especially interesting to say. She uses English well, and many of us could take a lesson from her. (How many people noticed that this paragraph says almost exactly the same simple thing three times, in three different ways? I’m taking a lesson from royalty.)

On the other hand, there is the side of my argument that I will not qualify. The Queen represents a decidedly small portion of the population of England. Most of her citizens sound like retards. I know this because they keep seeking me out and sharing that with me for some reason.

I, like so many of you, adore websites like Facebook and MySpace. They are an amazing way to learn more about your friends and keep in touch. They also allow strangers to find you. Several aspects of my profiles seem to attract the attention of strangers. I’m not going to bother to list these aspects, but they’re like honey to flies.

Lately, I have been attracting a lot of British strangers.

Let me take a quick poll here. How many of you are fans of the cultural relevance of the American dialect which, in the nineties, was given the name of “Ebonics”? The theory was that a subset of our population which was more “ebonic” than the rest of us were doing badly in school because they didn’t know proper English and were lost causes. Thus, their grades would improve if we assumed that they were incapable of learning in school and just graded them on what they knew anyway. If I recall correctly, this was the most racist thing anyone proposed in the entire decade.

My guess is that not many hands went up. Now let me ask how many people think British slang is cool. I see we have a lots of hands up this time.

Most British slang is just like Ebonics, but much more hideously incorrect. Ebonics was strikingly similar to English, but with a smaller subset of words. For example, in Ebonics, the same word is used as a noun, adjective, and adverb in places where grammar dictates there should be three distinct forms. Pronunciation may be altered slightly, but all in all, speakers of English have little trouble figuring out what an Ebonics speaker is getting at.

Not so with British slang. One of my favorite exchanges took place when a freak sent me a picture to something inappropriate as a way of saying hello. Then I was told that my pictures were horny. This confused me. I asked how, exactly, my pictures were horny. I honestly had no clue WTF was being discussed. I was told that, “your pics are really horny. you know.” I insisted that I didn’t. Several minutes later, I asked if the gist of the message was that my pictures were inspiring horniness in others. This caused equal confusion on the other end, but eventually turned out to be more or less the gist of things.

I am sad to say that this is not an isolated incident. I’ll be the first to admit that my circle of friends includes only a small number of born and raised Brits. We’ll toss the Queen in there for good measure, just to be fair and balanced (and inaccurate). Even with her factored in, the amount of outright incorrectness in the speech of the British is much higher (on average) than that of the average American, from my limited point of view.

In conclusion, an American trying to sound “cool,” by emulating the slang and accent of the British… No. Let’s be blunt. English accents are for the retarded.

Help Me Cure AIDS

Today’s blog post is going to be wildly different from my usual mix of sarcasm, humor, and banal observation. I’m totally serious, and I genuinely want you (whoever you are) to do this.

I want you to help me cure AIDS. Don’t worry. It won’t be hard.

[Note: if you don’t give a crap about AIDS, do this anyway. I’ll explain later how you can help me cure cancer instead.]

All I want you to do is install a program on your computer. It won’t do much if you’re using the computer yourself. However, if you walk away from the computer (leaving it on), or only use the computer for very simple tasks, your computer will begin doing complex calculations on molecular modeling simulations in an effort to cure AIDS.

[Note: skip this paragraph if you are not interested in any more detail than that, or if you are easily frightened by technical talk.] If you follow obscure topics in the news, you may already be aware that researchers faced with extremely complicated problems often have trouble getting time to work with the supercomputers that they need to do their jobs. As a result, calculations modeling these complex systems largely sit stagnant, even though people have a pretty good idea how to solve them. This is simply because the researcher cannot get access to a machine capable of doing the job in less than a century. The ironic thing is that in developed nations, computational power is HUGELY underutilized. Most computer owners only use about 15% of the processing power of their computers (on average – there are spikes, especially if you like modern computer games). For example, if all you’re doing on your PC right now is reading this blog, your CPU is probably using about 1% of its actual processing power. It’s like a jet engine on a go-cart. Serious overkill. I’m asking you to donate about 60% of that unused processing power to help cure AIDS. The program I want you to run turns your computer into a “part” of a simulated supercomputer being managed by a remote server. Your computer will chug away at a small slice of a much larger problem downloaded from the internet. It will then send the answer back to the server, download a new small slice, and repeat. Over time, these solutions are assembled into final results.

The following program does ALL of the work. It runs in the background, using your processor and memory only when you’re not using them yourself. Unless you’re curious what your PC has been up to while you weren’t using it, you can simply set up the program and never look at it again, all while still having a serious impact on understanding and curing AIDS. [Note: If you ARE interested, you can see what you’ve been working on, how much you’ve contributed, and much more.]

I’m not joking when I say that you can make a big difference here. I’ve been using this program for about a week now. On average, about 75 computers have been logged on at any given moment since I joined the system. Two of those computers are mine. That means I’m personally donating more than 2% of the network. (Possibly more, since both my computers have dual core CPU’s, which makes a BIG difference here. If you have a quad core CPU, you’d be able to do 4x the work as a guy with a single core, for example.) If I can talk ten readers into installing this on their computers, I will have increased the size of the network by about 13%. That’s a big jump in speed and efficiency! I’m more than happy to take the time to write this for the possibility of that kind of result.

It’s very simple to get this running. All you need to do is register a username, download the program, click a few checkboxes to let it know what you’re willing to let your computer research, and go. That’s it.

If you want to start with the official page to get to know the process in an “official” capacity first, go here:
http://fightaidsathome.scripps.edu/
read all you want, and follow a couple of obvious links to the download page.

If you just trust me or don’t care, get right to the registering here:
http://www.worldcommunitygrid.org/reg/viewRegister.do

Note that curing AIDS is not the only thing your computer can work on. By default, your computer would be set up to research AIDS, cancer, novel drugs, and other biological processes. If AIDS is your only big interest, uncheck the other boxes. If you have a strong interest in cancer research, just check that one. If you just like being helpful and/or have no particular interest in any health problems, check all the boxes. You’re helping the world in a big way no matter what projects you pick.

Also note that you can help even more by forwarding links to this post (or just the included links themselves) to friends and family. I generally don’t care how many people look at the stuff I write. I do my stuff for me, believe it or not. But in this case, preaching to a crowd is EXACTLY what I set out to do. Help me make a difference!

Why I’m a Vegan

I have a “real” story I tell people about why I decided to become a vegan. It’s pretty reasonable, doesn’t infringe on how other people want to live their lives, and makes a good bit of sense, all while being very ironic, and a little bit funny.

People hate that story, because I use it to justify being a vegan. I’m told that the way I’m supposed to be making that argument involves throwing blood on non-believers, hate crimes, and being insufferable at all meals. But that’s just not my style.

Because so many people hate my official explanation, I have had several years to ponder if there might be a more effective way to explain my non-threatening stance on veganism. The other day, it hit me.

If you are reading this blog, odds are nearly at 100% that you know someone with a dog who spoils it terribly. They treat it like a member of the family, it follows them everywhere, and it’s spoiled beyond all recognition. The people who most often do this are middle-aged housewives. Often, they have had several dogs over the years, and in many cases, each new dog looks suspiciously similar to the last.

If you know this dog owner well, you probably know how the previous dogs met their end, because this is one of the owner’s favorite things to talk about. Typically, the dog (after becoming grossly overweight) died of some form of organ shutdown. By the time the third dog enters the scene, it is often on an all-organic diet of special food. Sometimes, this food is more elaborate than the stuff its owners eat. It is generally high fiber, vegetable based, and low in calories.

That said, let me finally get to my point. On many, many occasions, I have been invited over to people’s houses only to hear the following story:
“I miss Fido II terribly. He was such an adorable dog, and he died so young. But then again, he did love those table scraps, right up to the point where he got fat and died."

::Pause, as I stare at the speaker::

"That’s why I only feed Fido III cooked beans and rice. Oh! That’s the kitchen timer! Meatloaf is ready dear, won’t you have some?”

“No thanks. I’ll have what Fido is having.”

Internet Quizzes Are Fun

To kill time, I recently took a two hundred question online survey that was designed to evaluate how healthy I am based on my lifestyle. It asked page after page of questions about my eating habits, exercise preferences, drug and alcohol use, medical history, sexual habits, sleep habits, height, weight, and hobbies.

At the end, it thought about my answers and told me that despite the fact that I had told it my birthday, I was actually 16.7 years old.

It’s a good thing it didn’t ask me anything about my politics, economic outlook, philosophies, or etiquette preferences. It might have told me I was 60.

As is, I pondered the curious results. Oh, right. All that crazy shit I do/don’t do.

I’ll bet if I took up some serious masturbation, I could get the computer to tell me I’m 15.

Heating Bill

I don’t pay for heating in my apartment. Instead, all of the apartments have single pipe radiators that run completely along the outside of all the outer rooms under a hidden hood. It works really well, is VERY hidden, totally quiet, and generally a feature I love.

I keep it turned off all winter.

My neighbors, by contrast, leave the valve controlling the water flow inside their pipes full open all winter. Their apartments get swelteringly hot as a result. How do I know this? Because when I open my windows (when it’s ten degrees below zero outside), my apartment cools down to a comfortable sixty-five degrees. That heat has to be coming from somewhere.

I’m not supposed to open my windows during the winter. The landlady actually drives around the complex every Tuesday and Thursday and checks for open windows. Last year, she called me up and left me a voicemail message telling me that if I didn’t close my window, she’d start charging everyone for heat.

I called the office back with some questions on this policy. I got the assistant manager. I told her that I kept my heat turned completely off. I was not wasting any energy. I told her that my apartment got way too hot if I closed the windows. I reassured her that my heat was completely off, and that my apartment was not frozen.

She listened politely and told me that she couldn’t care less what I did, and told me that the Landlady only checks for windows open on Tuesday and Thursday during a predictable one hour window.

Surprised, I thanked her, and we both hung up sounding pleased with ourselves. I now religiously keep my windows closed for those two hours every week. That’s apparently all it takes. I haven’t had any issues with this policy ever since.

Celebrities Are Filthy Whores

I make no secret of the fact that I hate the news. I read news articles and invariably think one of two things:
1) That story omitted all the important information.
2) This is an editorial in disguise.

For an example of the first type of story, please click the following link:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/7258775.stm

Apparently, a large number of famous people are at risk of contracting Hepatitis A after they visited a swanky bar that employs a bartender who was recently infected. People who might have contracted the disease from this bartender include Madonna, Gwyneth Paltrow, Ashton Kutcher, Demi Moore, Ivanka Trump, Liv Tyler, Catherine Keener, Lucy Liu, Salma Hayek, etc. etc.

As I said, the story omits one key piece of information. Specifically, WHAT THE HELL WERE THOSE PEOPLE DOING IN THERE THAT MAKES THEM THINK THEY GOT HEP A FROM A BARTENDER? Generally, I don’t care what celebrities do in their personal lives. But this here simply HAS to be a fascinating story. Hep A isn’t like the flu. It’s only transmitted from fecal-oral contact. That said, I have three theories.

Theory One:
“Hey Ashton! Madonna and I are going to play a game of ‘lick the bartender’s asshole! Want to play? Salma already got him nice and slippery!”

Theory Two:
“Wow, you celebrities are some thirsty people! But are you as committed to the environment as I am? Would anyone mind if I cut down on laundry waste by drying your glasses with toilet paper I brought back from the bathroom? I’m pretty sure I only used one side.”
“Sounds good!”
“I don’t have a problem with that.”
“Manhattan’s fragile ecosystem must be protected!”

Theory Three:
“As your doctor, I am sorry to tell you that you have Hepatitis A.”
“Does it matter that I haven’t washed my hands since the Reagan administration?”

I think we can all agree that the article I referenced would be much more fun if it included any of these (likely) explanations.

You Need A Spanking

True story.

For months, my printer at home would print black and white pages perfectly, but instantly jam when printing in color.

This was really annoying, because after searching it three times, I simply could NOT find any evidence of any blockage, stuck gears, misalignments, etc.

Finally, it got to the point where I really wanted to print a few pages in color right then and there. I was ready to drive to Best Buy and get a new printer. Before I did, I decided to blow off a little steam at the annoyance I had let go on for so long. I unplugged the printer, carried it over to the counter, set it down, and gave it a vigorous spanking.

I then calmly picked it back up, brought it to the computer, and reattached it.

Problem solved.

Fun With Junk Mail

I thought I’d celebrate the economic recession by teaching you how to have fun for free. Put all the money you save by doing this instead of other fun things into savings. In a few years, you’ll be rich!

Sarcasm aside, I really do have a fun idea for you to try.

Do you get junk mail? Sure you do. Do you get lots of it? I’ll bet! Would you like to find the guy who sends it to you and kick him squarely in the nuts? Of course! Who wouldn’t?!

Here’s what you do: every day, go out to the mailbox. Be excited! You’re a rebel. Go through the mail and eagerly extract all the letters offering you credit cards, religious experiences, the chance to donate money to “worthy” causes, etc. Open these letters immediately.

These letters are special because they almost always contain a return envelope. Eagerly extract all of the free return envelopes out of your mail. Deposit the rest of the contents of these letters into your shredder.

The return envelopes that come in junk mail are special. They have fun messages on them like “No Postage Necessary If Mailed From Within The United States.” Those envelopes are your friends.

Take all of these empty return envelopes and lick them. Seal them carefully, then put them back in the mailbox. They will start a new journey through life as they target their original senders like brilliant heat-seeking missiles.

In a few days, they will have found the companies that sent you junk mail. Those companies will then be hit with your mail bombs. They will open them and scream in horror at their emptiness. Then the post office will send those companies a bill for $0.41. That’s forty-one cents that the companies who sent you junk mail will NOT be able to use to send you more.

Smile serenely to yourself. It wasn’t quite as satisfying as send a REAL mail bomb to junk mailers, but it’s extremely effective. Over time, it will help make sure that the only companies who have the money to send you mail are the ones with worthwhile goods or services.

I Test Drugs On Humans Without Their Consent

Some of you may recall that, not long ago, I created a quiz to tell an unlikely story. In that story, I explained that I was experimenting with flavoring the coffee at work by adding unusual, aging spices from my pantry.

A small handful of people thought – as I did – that this was interesting and often delicious. (My company buys us Torke Coffee. The oft-stated opinion of everyone who works here is that the secret ingredient is tar. Adding spices to cover the taste is a big improvement.)

Most people hated this. I was accused of making tea in the coffee pot. When I explained to people that it was full strength coffee, but that it no longer tasted like ass, I was accused of devious lies. Confused, I asked these people if they really thought the coffee was too weak. Yes. Yes, they did.

Ok.

Welllllllllllll. I might not have found this to be the most reasonable argument. And as time went on, and I showed people that the coffee was obviously being made with as many grounds as usual, they still told me the coffee was too weak. I might not have been impressed by this either.

Eventually, my rational side teamed up with my mischievous side and decided that this had gone on long enough. One boring day, I decided to run a little experiment. It was noon, and I wanted to make coffee. I usually make coffee with seven scoops of grounds, plus spices. Then people come to me to complain how much weaker it is than the coffee I make with seven scoops and no spices.

I made the coffee with twenty-one scoops of grounds, plus three times as much spice.

I poured myself a third of a cup, topped it off with hot water, and went back to my office.

Half an hour went by. The building manager went home for the day.

Another half hour went by. Suddenly, without warning, the building secretary informed her computer that, “GUUUUUURAH! I AM NOT INSANE!”

Another half an hour went by. The sober, middle aged men in the lunchroom began to entertain each other with impromptu solo renditions of rock songs from the seventies.

Another half an hour went by. The secretary shouted at my office, “Hey engineer, this is really good coffee!”

I find it disturbing that stuff like this is how I most often get compliments.

A Perverse, Twisted, Evil Nest of Pedophiles

Police in Utah recently broke up a rapidly-growing pedophile ring that was endangering the safety of local children. At least six – possibly more – local children were subjected to demeaning objectification for the sick pleasures of those involved.

The extent of the crime came to light when a cache of these filthy pictures were turned over to police after being found in the possession of one of the deviants. The pictures in question were of both boys and girls from the local junior high, all of whom were less than 15 years old.

The case is being turned over to the Davis County attorney to determine the extent to which these sick pedophiles should be punished. I’m sure you’re with me in calling for their immediate execution.

Unfortunately, this is a true story. What I failed to make clear is that the people being turned over to the police are the kids themselves. That’s right. A bunch of middle school students – without adult knowledge, let alone pressure – was having a fun time sending each other naked pictures of themselves on their cell phones. This is about as far from abuse as you can conceivably get. Not only were no adults taking advantage of the kids, but something tells me that even the weakest-willed middle schooler could manage to control the impulse to lock themselves in the bathroom alone and send nude pictures to all their friends if they didn’t feel like it.

The situation was all fun and games until one of the kid’s mom found the pictures and thought, “You know who I should show these to? Fox News.”

Now, the kids are facing felony charges for distributing child pornography. The school principle went on TV and said, “They may not have realized it, but they were abusing themselves.”

Because I’m retarded, I’m going to once again take the outlandish position of defending our nation’s “pedophiles.”

Nation, I do not think that these kids were abusing themselves. I’m pretty sure they did not rape themselves either. Your instinctive impulse to equate nudity amongst young people with rape and sexual deviance is exceedingly perverse. Your willingness to charge them as felons for a game of “I’ll show you mine” is beyond insane. You have just created six people who will likely have issues with shame and sexual dysfunction for the rest of their lives.

Mother-Who-Found-The-Pictures-And-Called-The-Police-And-Fox-News-On-Your-Kid, I wish I was in a position to call Child Services on you. You are not fit to be a parent. In fact, you almost make me question my own premise that no one was abusing any of these children. The fact that you were willing to make an unwilling pornographic example of your own son or daughter for a national audience is an atrocity. I hope your 15 minutes of fame was worth it.

Drugs Are Bad, Mmmmk?

C’mon here people. I know New Years was fun, but the vacation’s over. Let’s get back to work here.

I think I may be bitter for some reason. It’s cold outside. That doesn’t help. But it seems to me that most of the people on Earth have not exactly been living up to expectations in 2008.

A lot of friends and family members have been inexplicably cranky, prone to expressing outlandish and questionable opinions, and behaving… unwisely. (I’m not talking about anyone in particular.) When I first thought of this, I said to myself, “Bullshit. You’re just in a bad mood. What’s up with that?” But then I asked myself a follow up question to prove it. I thought to myself, “What things have people done so far this year that were unexpectedly thoughtful, kind, or impressive?”

“Uuuuuh.”

That was when I got worried. Fortunately, the majority of stuff my friends and family have been doing is more odd than really troublesome. When we open this up to the big picture though, things get a lot more concerning.

I won’t even begin to discuss my thoughts on primaries in the US.

Discussing work related observations is similarly not interesting enough to merit cataloging.

A more interesting example has been people’s developing responses to the housing market meltdown. In simpler times, people would default on burdensome mortgages. This year, people have taken to trashing houses before turning the keys over to the bank. There have been reports of taking sledgehammers to walls and windows, and one creative man who locked live pigs in the house before vacating. This is not what I would describe as mature, responsible behavior.

But for even more fun, let’s be starfuckers and play the celebrity game. First, Brad Renfro dies. When I saw the headline, I was all like, “His age is similar to mine. What’s up with that?” Then I saw that he died of some sort of massive illegal drug overdose. Oh.

Now, Heath Leger is dead. Again, I saw the headlines and was like, “Goddammit, why is everyone in my general age range suddenly dropping dead?” Then I saw that he died of some sort of massive legal drug overdose. Oh.

Now for my favorite example. I don’t pay enough attention to the Britney Spears scandals to qualify as a true American citizen. I generally cynically assume that celebrity scandals are staged as career boosters. But then I saw this article:
http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,323271,00.html
Ok, there is exactly a 0% chance that the actions and physical conditions described in that story could boost anyone’s career. I hate to say it, but by the end, I was really laughing pretty hard at the subliminal imagery. The entire closing third of the thing describes an unusually long list of physical features, behaviors, attitudes, and defects that can all be described as “sticky.” It also made me want to take a shower.

I don’t usually ask what, if anything, people resolved to do during the new year. But if I might make a suggestion… It appears that a lot of people made one or more of the following New Years resolutions:
--Determine the exact limit to the amount of drugs I can take, give or take 500%.
--Be bitchier.
--Yell at or ignore people if I’m tired, or feeling busy.
--Publicly flaunt character defects.
--Accomplish a lot less. Or nothing at all.

These resolutions are complete. Many of us did a great job accomplishing them in record time. Let’s get back to business as usual!

I Gave Them All Facelifts (Things Unsaid)

Some of you have noticed that one of my pet projects went silent in 2007. “Things Unsaid” (which many people have been delighted to tell me they do not like at all) came to a quiet stop right around the time I had my second Kinetics midterm.

That was not entirely a coincidence, but there was more involved than that.

I was actually really enjoying the project. To repeat, most people hated it. This was not unexpected. Many people are needlessly scared of me as a person too. I’m a little different.

Some people, on the other hand, were with me on “Things Unsaid.” For every handful of people who didn’t like it at all, there was a person who loved it. That’s actually better than I could have hoped for.

The thing got a lot of criticism. I like criticism. It’s informative. Most of the criticism about “Things Unsaid” came from people who didn’t like it. Some of it came from people who were actually scared of it. While I liked hearing from these groups, their advice had a common theme: “We don’t like this at all.” Suggestions from those people were many and diverse. I did not act on them.

From the people who did like the comic, one theme popped up a few times: “The art is kind of weak.” That point, I took seriously. The art WAS weak. The entire comic started as another inexplicable coffee-fueled high. (Don’t use drugs, kids.) The first forty-four strips were compiled from a handful of sketches I created in under an hour. Total. That’s it. The rest was just placement and the occasional expression tweak. I was doing edits in Microsoft Paint.

That was working remarkably well (all things considered), but as far as being a pet project of mine, my friends all know that that’s well below my typical quality standards. As I grew to like the project (rather than growing tired of it, like I expected), I knew more and more that I needed to fix a few issues. Most of those issues had to do with the art and resolution.

That work is nearly complete. I have completed an entirely new generation of drawings that make the old ones look… Well, they make them look terrible. I have been steadily updating the old comics into entirely new versions that are both more readable and prettier. I have moved the entire production into Photoshop, which has given me a great deal of control over final product quality.

The entire series will be transitioned to the new format by the end of the month. Once that’s done, backdated material will be uploaded at a rapid pace, also using the new quality standards.

A new character is right around the corner, and new scandals are brewing that might seem ironically familiar to anyone who reads newspapers regularly.

But by far the most interesting thing is that the entire comic suddenly looks shockingly professional.

At the time of this posting, I have three “Transition” posts at the top of the page where you can compare before and after strips. This will help you recognize the suddenly-attractive cast. Also, the first eight comics in the archives have been completely updated, along with the banner art.

Comics will continue to be updated start to finish. When all forty-four old-style comics have been converted, the “Transition” posts will be deleted. At the same time, the story will pick up where it left off, posting eight strips per week (instead of four) until I’m caught up.

You have until then to make additional suggestions on the new direction.

Please remember that the project is now hosted at a new location:

http://lakeunsaidit.blogspot.com/

Enjoy!

Parking On The Lawn

I’m really dating this blog with this one, because the huge mountains of snow plowed off of the employee parking lots were not playing citadel around the pavement when I got the idea for this post. Instead, it was late summer. I decided this post was less interesting than a lot of other things and have had it on the backburner ever since.

I came out of the office one afternoon and headed towards the first of our site’s four parking lots. It’s the lot I park in almost every day. It’s the one closest to my building. Many of my site’s workers use a very similar strategy when looking for parking.

What I didn’t realize was the near-manic degree to which some of my co-workers were willing to pursue this convenience.

On that day, I walked towards the lot only to discover that five cars had decided to “think outside the box” and park directly on the lawn after they discovered that the parking lot was full.

When I noticed this (I’d never seen anything like it before), I wondered if maybe they had closed off the other lots for some reason. We repave or hold career fairs on occasion. Things like that are generally what inspire me to use some other lot. I figured that space must be getting tight.

No dice. All the other lots were open and comparatively empty. I smiled slightly to myself that people were funny, but didn’t think much of it.

The next morning, I opened up my email program to find an email from the head of my site to all local employees. Apparently, I wasn’t the only person to look at the cars on the lawn and think, “Lazy.” We were told to park on pavement from now on.

I was glad to have that cleared up. I might have decided to try to top the grass-lovers and park in the firewater pond.

I’m Still A Whore

When I moved my blog to the new site, I did so in order to make money off of the ads. That was more than enough information for me. I did not really care what the ads were trying to sell. I signed up to let a computer program scan my content and post ads for me that it felt would make me the most money. This seemed a wise use of my time. I had no idea what it would come up with and did not care. To be honest, I assumed pornography would be involved.

That has turned out to have been a very bad guess. And thank God it was. I never expected the sheer delight of these ads. They’re almost as funny as my writing. And if you hate my writing, you might even think they’re funnier.

Because one of the factors behind my moving the blog was a desire to eliminate censorship concerns, many of you noticed that the first thing up on the new site was the entire “Bathroom Sex” series. For those of you joining us late, this series of posts details various thoughts and methods that may or may not have been used to seduce the towelboy at my office. Not quite a set of stories about anonymous stall sex, but close. Very classy material.

Well, my advertisement computer friend loyally appeared, “read” my posts, and found me some advertising clients. Guess what it posted.

“Find Local Plumbers” and “Rotarooters” were some of the duller entries. But much more entertaining material has visited as well. I can’t speak for what it’s displaying by the time you read this, so I provide here a photo of some of the better ads that showed up to party with the “Bathroom Sex” stories:




“Paper Towel Dispensers” is too good. Nothing I can say will make that any funnier. And anyone who has chatted with me on AIM long enough to spot a (slightly) hidden joke I came up with in college will appreciate “Is Lake Water Killing You?” I’ll leave the third ad open to interpretation.

Clever readers will quickly note that this post was just me taking credit for random humor the universe threw my way. That’s true. On the other hand, I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t paying attention. I just hope you find it as funny as me!

9:15

Recently, I went grocery shopping. I needed walnuts late at night. It was a minor emergency.

After running some other errands, I pulled into the mostly-empty grocery store parking lot. I glanced at the clock in my dash as I turned off the car. It was 9:07. I opened the car door, but just as I was about to step out into the lot, I saw something glint on the floor in front of the passenger’s seat. It was a small fuse.

Leaving the car door open, I reached over, picked up the fuse and looked at it closer. From the size and shape, I managed to figure out that it was from my GPS system. I reached up, unplugged it, opened the chasse, reinstalled the missing fuse, and plugged it back in. Elapsed time: about 45 seconds.

I turned my head back to the parking lot only to discover the cart collector looking at me. Without missing a beat, he said, “Just so you know, we close at 10:00.”

I blinked. After a short pause, I answered, “Isn’t it just a little after 9:00?”

He replied, “Yeah, but I’m just saying as a courtesy so you don’t feel rushed.”

Though I was a little confused by this unexpected exchange, I decided not to draw it out. From the guy’s tone and general demeanor, I got the distinct impression that thinking was not his sport. “Ok, thanks,” I ended.

As I walked towards the store, I thought about this. I wondered to myself how his random parking lot message could count as a courtesy. I then wondered how him telling me that could possibly inspire me to NOT feel rushed. I wasn’t getting very far with these questions.

I entered the store. I went to the walnuts. I grabbed a bag. (Of walnuts.) I checked out. (Not the stockboy.) I went back to my car.

On my way out, the cart guy was still lingering. He again spoke to me without provocation. “Sorry about that.”

This confused me. I replied, “Uhm. That’s ok. You just confused me a little is all.”

He answered, “Yeah, I confused myself too.”

This struck me as funnier than it should have.

I started my car and looked at the dash. It was 9:15.

This is a true story.

Straightest Man Ever

Recently, I had the chance to meet the straightest man on Earth. By straightest, I mean most heterosexual. Before I met him, I wouldn’t have been confident that I could recognize the straightest man on Earth. In fact, I’d talked with him dozens of times before I realized. But I found him.

How, you might ask, did I come to this conclusion? That’s a good question. I’ll show you my notes on this subject and let you draw your own conclusions.

I regularly commute a long distance. By regularly, I mean that I cross state lines twice a week on a round trip. Every time I do this, I stop at the same Starbucks on a highway oasis both ways. Again, for clarity, I go to the same Starbucks twice a day, twice per week.

Every day, I head south wearing black slacks, a short sleeved shirt, and a belt. Every day a few hours later, I go back to the Starbucks having inexplicably changed into black basketball pants and a white tshirt.

I order the same thing every time. Is it a coffee? No. Is it an iced tea? No. I order a Venti Green Tea Soy Latte. The drink looks a little like the afterbirth from the Jolly Green Giant giving birth to The Hulk’s love child. It’s green. I’ve never seen someone else order these. And I have to imagine the soy substitution makes it even more foofy-like. [Author’s Note: This may sound gross, but it’s amazing.]

Three of the four baristas at this Starbucks quickly noticed the pattern. They get visibly cheerful when I approach, look genuinely pleased to see me, and know what I’m going to order.

The fourth barista brusquely took my order about forty times without the slightest hint of recognition. I eventually concluded that he was just a grumpy asshole. But then, after several dozen visits, he swiped my credit card one day, and appeared to have a minor epiphany. He looked up at me and asked, “Have you been here before?”

Similing, I replied, “Dozens of times. And about three hours ago.”

He smiled for the first time ever (that I saw) and replied, “I recognized your credit card.”

Not me. Not my weird drink. Not the fact that I was just there. He recognized my American Express card.

Right then and there, I knew I had found the straightest man ever.

“Same Thing, But Different”

Lately, I’ve been hearing a figure of speech a little too often. “Same thing, but different.” Are you familiar with it? People say it when they think they know a lot about a subject but accidentally call something by the name of something else that appears superficially similar.

I’ve been hearing it a lot at work, in reference to chemicals.

Perhaps I have a hearing disorder of some sort. My ears hear the figure of speech as stated. Similarly, my eyes can trace the words as framed by the lips of the speaker. I can see and hear them mouth the words, “Same thing, but different.”

However, by the time that message gets decoded in my brain, the line of thought that I perceive is, “I’m fucktarded!”

I’m not usually this harsh. But seriously folks. Let’s review. If you’ve worked in a chemical plant for years, you should have picked up on the fact that not all chemicals are the same. For example, sodium hydroxide and sodium bicarbonate. Same thing, but different, right?! Both are white powders! Both have sodium in their name! Sure, they’re the same. They’re the same in that sodium hydroxide (a strong base) will turn fats into soap, whereas sodium bicarbonate (baking soda) turns heavy cookie dough into festive, fluffy cookies in the oven. To me, that’s a little different. (This is a real example of what someone at work called the same thing but different.)

Let’s give another example. Propylene glycol and ethylene glycol (both are used as heat transfer fluids). Same thing but different, right!? Both are clear liquids with “glycol” in their names! Sure. They’re the same. They’re the same in that propylene glycol is the main ingredient in sexual lubricants, while ethylene glycol is a lethal poison. Let’s smear a little of both on our genitals and call it good, shall we? (Another real example.)

The expression only works if it’s used ironically, people. If you can’t tell the difference between talcum powder and rat poison, that’s your problem. But I don’t care to watch you scratch yourself all day as a result.