Fifteen billion degrees.

I’d like it if some company somewhere would invent a laptop that does not moonlight as an oven.

(I’m writing this in the customer lounge as I wait for my car’s serving to finish. Not a very private place, but I’d managed to snag an entire seat for myself and did not have to worry about anyone peeking at my machine. Until this lady sat down next to me and started peeking at my screen. She apparently is very interested in what I’m writing.

Well, she just read that last paragraph, and now for some reason she is staring glassily at the opposite wall. I suppose that there was a more diplomatic way of handling that, but I had to wake up at a half past six to get here on time and right now I’m not very well disposed towards the world. Also the laptop is reaching the temperature of a furnace, an enthusiastic furnace at the center of the sun.)

So yeah, hot laptops. Bad for the whole lap part of the body.

(And before I get yelled at, I give complete credit to someone else for first mentioning the hot laptop issue.)

Take me to your dealer

Today, in the gym I was forced to watch a ten minute interview with Miss Universe, Miss Puerto Rico. She had a freakish broad grin/smile/grimace on her face and she held it through the entire interview. It was frightening to behold. She was grinning and speaking simultaneously. On occasions she’d relax the grimace into some kind of a half smile before turning it right back on and giving the interviewers and the helpless audience (me) an unimpeded view of those choppers.

The title, Miss Universe is a bit strange don’t you think? I’m reasonably sure that there are billions of planets in the universe other than planet Earth. It is more than likely that a few of them harbour intelligent life. It is quite possible that the intelligent life may have two or more sexes. One of which could be given the title “Miss”.

But were any of these alien misses at the pageant?
No.

Were they afforded a chance to parade out in ball gowns or in swim suits and make up stories about how they’d like to help the orphans, eradicate poverty, eliminate hunger and do the rest of that good stuff?
No.

The really cannot call it Miss Universe if the rest of the Universe isn’t taking part? (That would be as silly as claiming to be world champions if you win a tournament in which the rest of the world does not take participate.) Heck, I’d be willing to allow it to stand if a couple more planets were involved. They needn’t be from this Solar System. (We all know that the Martians are a nasty bunch.). Send out a multi-directional radio signal letting the universe know about the idiocy…pageant. I’m certain that somewhere out there, there is a species, one that contains members who would enjoy being anorexic and half naked in front of an audience of…Two Hundred Thousand Million Billion Trillion semi-sentient beings (Too lazy to look up actual viewership numbers for the pageant.)

They could share with us touching stories about their childhood, which depending on the species might involve them exploding from the gestatory (not a real word) pod on the mother ship, or chasing down wild Helium Creatures on the sixth moon of their home planet. It will bring the species together. And maybe it will be interesting. Maybe one species is the other’s natural prey. Or maybe a couple of species may chemically interact with each other to create a large oddly coloured pile of goo.

I don’t know. The possibilities are fucking endless. Think of the ratings. A multi-species audience. Advertising revenues. Sure, it’s hard to sell dehydrated rocks to human, but on BetaBlugeNnosMosPoobah V they are a delicacy. Much like heroin right here on earth. Human censors would no longer be an issue. Wardrobe malfunctions do not matter if the part of the anatomy that was covered by that part of the wardrobe looks like a washing machine or a small tree. Or a small tree with Washing Machine Fruit…That last one could be freaky I suppose.

This is a sound business proposal. I hope that someone is reading and taking these ideas to heart.

And this is not an option. It needs to happen now. Because, I’m pretty sure that the television signals from the pageant have reached our alien neighbours. (Yes, they may be a billion light years away, but the laws of physics were torn asunder by the laws of people blogging at one in the night after three days of very, very little sleep. The signals used a convenient worm hole and hitched a ride on a passing space battle cruiser/GalactEX package delivery ship to get to the alien neighbours. Let’s call them the Shampoo. Because calling them the Butterscotch would be so inappropriate.)

The Shampoo are probably a proud, martial people. With vast fleets of faster than light battle ships capable of destroying the earth, in much the same way that I demolish a tub of ice cream. (Missiles, spoons. Tom-ay-to, tom-ah-to).

They’d capture the signals, watch the pageant, figure out that Ms (Really M!szr#@*3) Shampoo ‘3790 wasn’t asked to participate and be fucking pissed off. Earth would be doomed. This cannot be allowed to happen. So invite Ms (Really M!szr#@*3) Shampoo ‘3790 to the pageant. It is a win-win situation for everyone. Hell, we might as well objectify alien females along with our own.

Yeah, so apparently she fainted. I’m not surprised. Maintaining that grimace probably burns a great deal of energy. Probably enough to fuel a fleet of faster than light battleships.

Happy Thoughts

Working late at the office isn’t all that bad. Until you actually need to leave. Now, before you start thinking that I have an unnatural and quite possibly twisted affinity for work allow me a moment to clarify. (Like you had a choice. It isn’t like you would have a chance to interrupt this post with your own typing. I do not expect the words, “You fucking workaholic” to rudely interject themselves between that last sentence and the one following it…Except that they did. Albeit in a twisty round about manner.)

Well, the problem is that the building has a very large parking lot. And late at night that very large parking lot, by day a large friendly parking lot (Like a friendly Golden Retriever, but with a lot more tar and more parking-lot-ier), by night is a large, lonely and very, very dark parking lot.

Very, very, very dark.

And lonely. There are maybe three cars parked in it. One of which is mine. Which one is mine, you may ask. Well the one that is fucking furthest away, at the far end of the lot. Even if I had parked in the first available spot when I came in, in the morning, by the time I leave at night, my car has telekinetically transported itself to the far end of the lot. And there it waits for me, softly sniggering and chortling, like a schoolboy who has pulled a particularly wicked prank. If my car had elbows, and if there was someone next to it to nudge, I’m sure that my car would be nudging it.

Did I mention that the lot is dark? Very, very dark? That’s because the powers that be have turned off the lights. The normal light producing lights, that is. And they’ve turned on the negative lights, the ones that suck in any ambient light that there may be. “No moonlight for you” is their motto. “Wade through the coagulating darkness” is their alternate motto. Neither of the two would make very good battle cries. (Unless the opposing host consisted solely of a poor, tired Rajneesh trying to make his way back to his car. In which case they would be moderately effective battle cries.)

The parking lot seems to stretch away to infinity…and beyond. My car is definitely in the beyond part of the Infinity. And as I make my way to it, all I can think of are Axe murderers that go “bump” in the night. I start whistling and then I stop. I do not want to annoy the axe murders. After what seems like an eternity I reach the car and then my nerve finally breaks. I dive in and screech out of the parking lot almost before my seat belt is on.

And then at the first stop sign, I remember that I haven’t checked my back seat for the psychopath who might be lurking there.

Gulp…

(Nothing in the back seat except for a T-shirt, a computer keyboard, a carton from Amazon.com and a spiked collar. That last would be worth remarking about, except that it belongs to me. If it wasn’t in the car I would be worried, because a spiked collar is a must for every well dressed Axe Murderer. Sadly, and I’m not kidding over here, I did check the back seat when I had stopped at that first stop sign.)

The game

The objective of "the Game" is to completely forget its existence. If you read this post, and then forget that "the Game" even exists, you’re off to a good start.

1) Knowledge that "the Game" exists is the only thing required to play.

2) Once you know "the Game" exists, you are automatically playing for the rest of your days. There’s no option, because you know it exists.

3) If you remember "the Game" exists for any reason, you lose "the game".

4) If a player loses "the Game", they must announce that they have lost "the Game" to everyone around them. If you’re talking to someone, and remember "the Game", you tell them you just lost, no questions asked.

5) Failure to announce a loss is considered cheating.

6) If you announce a loss to another person, who does not know what "the Game" is, you must explain its rules.

7) You cannot lose more than once every ten minutes, to allow you to forget its existence again.

8) Anything can trigger memory of the game, but any recollection of this specific "Game" is all that’s needed to lose. If another player tells you "I lost the Game", you lost as well, because that player just reminded you of its existence.

That was from a forum in which I lurk (That was from a forum I lurk in?).

The Game.

My Brain...

...is so fried right now.

Which of the ellipses should I get rid off? The ones in the title or the ones here? These are important questions. Questions that need to be asked. And I am fearlessly asking them.

I need to do some of that sleep junk. I’ve heard that it’s good stuff.

I keep having this recurring dream that I’m asleep. It is surreal because I know that it is a dream and that I am dreaming of being asleep. It would be nice if that counted as me being twice as asleep.

I am sound sound asleep asleep.

Do you realize that price and value are synonyms, but priceless and valueless are antonyms (Addendum: less and less are synonyms too!)?

My Hotmail inbox continues to be ravaged by spammers. Apparently they now believe that using the From and the Subject fields to form a complete sentence makes their case more persuasive.

From......................................Subject

Friendly HouseWife..................Looking to get laid

HubbyCan't.............................SatisfyMeAnymore

Or maybe I judge too harshly. Maybe Mrs. Friendly HouseWife is just being um friendly. But now I need to pity the guy married to Mrs. Friendly HouseWife, not because of her friendliness but because his last name is HouseWife. I bet he got beat up a lot at school.

The other person does not have a last name, but I’m sure her husband is either very trusting or very, very, very stupid. He married a person called HubbyCan’t for pity’s sake (And I do believe that that is the first time I have seen an apostrophe in anybody’s name).

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s spam sent out by spoofers and crooks and other all around bad people. Do people still open those emails? Somewhere is there some dumbass who sees “Friendly HouseWife looking to get laid“ and goes, “Holy fuck, I do believe there is a hidden message here. I have to open this email. The fate of humanity depends on it!” And then he jumps into a telephone booth and switches into his superhero costume. However since the phone booth has glass walls, he scandalizes the nice old lady behind him who was waiting to make a phone call and so he is promptly arrested for indecent exposure.

Is the opposite of “Indecent Exposure”, “Decent Exposure”? That was another question that needed to be asked. And I asked it. And now I shall jump into a telephone booth to change into my superhero cos…Never mind.

So, yeah, my brain is so fried right now.

Be prepared

Some people can travel light. They may be leaving for a six month trip to the wilds of the Amazon rain forest, or to the outer reaches of Mars and all they need to pack are a change of underwear and an English to Martian Dictionary. (The dictionary comes in handy in the rain forest if you feel the urge to bean a wandering toaster. And on Mars the rocks speak nothing but Martian. Very provincial and very, very uncultured.

But, it’s Mars. You really can’t expect the local geo-fauna to be very communicative. It’s the red planet for a reason. The reason being that red is the least talkative of the colors…

…yeah, I’m so fucking out of ideas.)

I am not one of them. I travel heavy. Really, really heavy. I over pack so badly that some people may get the impression that I believe that my sole hope of salvation depends on me stuffing as many things as I can into my backpack. For instance, this last weekend, for an overnight trip to State College, I had packed two pairs of jeans, three T-shirts and for some strange reason four pairs of socks. One of those four pairs was a pair of formal dress socks (No fucking clue why I packed that particular pair).

I hadn’t packed any shoes, but I had the sock front fully covered. If there came a time for me to do my duty, and if that duty involved me having four pairs of socks, perhaps using those socks to fight off rampaging hordes of sock-less monstrosities, I would not be found wanting.

While packing my bag all this seemed perfectly reasonable. I needed backups in case I dropped water or coffee or alcohol over any of my clothes. And then those backups needed backups which needed backups that needed backups…unto infinty.

Eventually I only ended up needing one T-shirt.

...And I forgot my tooth brush.

...And especially for one person, loud explosions and lots of semi-naked women have now made an appearance in this post.

Ouch!

My arm hurts.

That was my obvious ploy for sympathy. Did it work? I’ll make a sad face if it helps.

Go go

In the absence of content, a new layout.

And a picture.

This is what happens when you listen to the soundtrack from Kill Bill for eight straight hours. You expect stuff to blow up and the Crazy 88 everywhere. Japanese schoolgirls and women in yellow jumpsuits.

Dammit, I gotta see that movie again.

(Yes, I realize that I changed the layout yesterday. But I did not finish tweaking it until today.

I do wish it was just as easy to change my furniture.

Life needs a cascading style sheet and HTML tags. Now, that would be cool. And strange. But mostly cool. People should be clickable. A little hand should appear over them when you point your hand at them… and I have no fucking clue where I going with this. However, all I can think of now is the ability to drag people I dislike to the Recycle Bin. For um...recycling.

Okay, I just creeped myself out. And not even in a nice way.

Other less creepy stuff, minimize people, maximize them, save them for later, print them out (colour (Fuck you Word! It’s colour and not color!) or grayscale), send them over the internet, share them over peer to peer networks…Boy, none of this is any less creepy. )

Um, yeah. New layout.

(One of these days I’ll write something without brackets and I will pop off from sheer amazement. It seems unnatural to write anything without brackets. Brackets are where all the fun is. The paragraph is where all the moral, upstanding words live. But the brackets are where all the action takes place. The brackets are the seedy underworld of the blog post. The place of high speed word chases, and word shoot outs. Where super-word-heroes, like BatWord and SpiderWord fight crime, the word-fia led by the nefarious “LOL”, and his associates, the criminal underbosses, “U”, “4” and “l8r”.

I see a movie idea here. Something Noir-ish (Noir-esque? Noir-litic? Noir-mal?), with lots of explosions (Bang! Boom! Stunt Words used in the explosions) and semi-naked women.)

The Cheese stands alone.

I usually not like people who smile too much (Smirking is a different matter altogether). That ten thousand watt smile may be pleasant, but after a while it will probably begin to grate.(Yes, I revel in being grumpy and grouchy. I have a ten thousand watt frown! If one of the fucking ghosts of Christmas came in to visit me, I’d throw something heavy at it, maybe a toaster or a large can of tomato puree. (I do have a large can of tomato puree that I bought last December and haven’t opened yet.) Except for the Ghost of Christmas Past. He’s cool.)

But far more annoying are the blank insincere smiles that the people in commercials have. They’re smiling for no fucking reason whatsoever. Nobody smiles when they are vacuuming, or when they are cleaning the toilet bowl, or when taking the trash out. (And how the fuck can they hold that smile for the entire duration of the commercial? While talking! It is unnatural, and probably involves plastic surgery, black magic and tons of duct-tape.)

No, the look on your face at that time is one of pained disgust, or a look of pained martyrdom, or a look of pained pain. No fucking smiling happens. No wide eyed looks of delight, no happy skipping with a dripping toilet brush in your hands. No looking into the toilet bowl with wide eyed wonder.

Inappropriate smiling involves smiling when you are in the presence of any cleaning product. If you are in the room with something that’s sole purpose in life is getting the gunk off your bathroom floor do not fucking smile like a supermodel just offered to bump uglies with you.

Ban those looks of childlike delight when the fucking Amazing Wonder Mop picks the grungy icky grime from off the floor. And if you show me a split screen with the leading competitor’s product, with it being used by a lady less attractive than the one using used by your product, I will come by your offices and tar and feather you. Except that instead of tar I will use the grungy grime that you used in your commercial.

No more smiling while advertising exercise products. Nobody has a smile of joy when they are on the treadmill. They grimace and look pissed off. Nobody stares off into the distance with a exalted smile as they use the device that will give them a six pack in three weeks if they use it for sixty three seconds a day. And frankly the implicit message in that commercial is that you (presumably gullible viewer) will end up looking like the person in that commercial if you just buy the product. That is fucking deceptive. But, if you are dumb enough to fall for that, you deserve to end up with the BoFlex Cardio-Ab-Ass Machine. You’ll never use it and I hope that the guilt eats you up inside. Either that or that the delivery people drop it on your toe. Try having a fucking exalted smile on your face then.

No smiling at the sight of breakfast cereal. People are not supposed to be cheery before breakfast. If they are, I will come by and shove their heads into the bowl. I’ll have a fucking exalted smile then.

No smiling when peddling pills. And no running past the side effects in a matter of seconds. If the side effects involve shortness of breath, hallucinations and death, I want to know about them. Without being blinded by the smile. Please.

Feel free to smile during a fast food advertisement. I enjoy watching people have coronaries as bright smiles flit across their faces. Much like a butterfly in the spring flitting across a field right before it becomes an early afternoon snack for some enterprising bird.

Grinning allowed during toothpaste commercials. But I’d prefer grimacing. (That’s just me and I’m willing to be flexible here.) But again, no fucking splits screens and please, please, stops using black dots to represent bacteria. I’d like to see something new. Perhaps, the grungy, grimy, gunk from that other commercial.

And more semi-naked women in beer commercials. They can smile as much as they want to. It is not in the least bit inappropriate. Hey, you‘re objectifying women, but at least you are being honest about it.

And Victoria’s Secret commercials. Smile as much as you want to. Or not. I’m really not paying attention to the smile part of the commercial. (One however does wonder who Victoria was, and what was her secret? Secret underwear? Like a secret agent? Undercover underwear? Underwear that used to work for MI6 and spy on the countries beyond the Iron Curtain? Was this underwear responsible for the fall of communism and the destruction of the Soviet Union? What was the underwear’s undercover alias? Was it impersonating a mild mannered shirt in the day and at night it would hunt down East German agents in West Berlin? I sense movie possibilities here. A movie with lots of loud explosions and semi-naked women. Or a movie with lots of loud women and semi-naked explosions)

So yeah, I got nothing.

Tag

Dhi Only One tagged me.

I am thinking

…With my brain and not with my genitalia. (Well…maybe someday)

I said

…I was out of town when the crime took place. But the cops did not believe me. They threw me into prison and I had my android henchman bust me out off that joint. We escaped through the sewers. And there we ran into Ras-Karfur, the alligator lord of the sewers. Many had faced him and had failed. But I had a shotgun and so in short order he resembled pâté de foie crocodilia. But just at that moment, when I thought I was home safe…Space Ninja Pirates from Outer Space.

…Fuck.

…Far too much.

…Far too little.

I want

… Stuff. (Refer to statement made with respect to regret)

…Two supermodels, a pair of handcuffs and butter. Lots of butter.

…That which I cannot have.

I wish

…I have no truck with genies. None whatsoever.

…That…Yeah, not gonna type that.

…That…Or that.

…That…Um, that’s just plain nasty.

I miss

…Bangalore.

I hear

…The circus is in town.

…The sound of music.

…The lamentations of their toasters.

…That the Nazgul ride again.

I wonder

…”Paint your own pottery studio” or …”Paint your “own pottery studio””

…”Who the fuck was Alice?”

I regret

…That I am not the kind of person who shares his regrets.

I am
…Spartacus.

…As transparent as a concrete wall.

…A transparent concrete wall.

…A member of the Human Saunter.

I dance…

…When just the right amount of drunk. (And I was past that point on Monday, so stop throwing that in my face!)

…Badly

…The Light Fantastic.

I sing

…In the shower.

…Of my deepest feelings. (Yeah right!)

…In the car.

I cry

…No I don’t. And you do not have the proof to say otherwise.

…Except during ET.

I am not

…What I was four years ago.

…Spartacus.

…A nice person.

I write

…Like I speak.

…Stuff that I will never publish.

…Inspirational tracts for the spiritual upliftment of mankind. (Fuck! I’m pretty sure upliftment is a word. Damn you Word’s red squiggly line.)

…To a captive audience.

I confuse

…Myself.

…Others.

…Stuff. (Refer to statement made with respect to regret)

…Alien Ninja Space Pirates with camels.

I need

… Stuff. (Refer to statement made with respect to regret)

…Two supermodels, a pair of handcuffs and butter. Lots of butter.

…what I cannot have.

I should

…Do stuff. (Refer to statement made with respect to regret)

…Hit the sack soon.

…Lose six pounds.

I finish

…With a bang. BANG.

…With a whimper. Yelp.

…As credits roll on the screen.


Well, since we link to the same folks, everyone else who reads this blog consider yourself tagged. Email me your posts or the links to your blogs.

Nobody ever expects the Ninja Inquisition...cause Ninjas are sneaky.

While on the topic of genies, is this the deal with them, “Rub my “lamp” and I’ll make your wishes come true.”?

Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Say no more.

I hope that I have successfully ruined every story in the Arabian Nights. Ones that have genies. The other ones are fine. Particularly the ones with the Vampire Robot Pirate Ninja from Outer Space. Go back and read the book. I’m sure it the name of the story was The Vizier and the Vampire Robot Pirate Ninjas from Outer Space. Or it could be The Vizier and the Camel. One of the two. I could be mistaken…because camels are rather like Vampire Robot Pirate Ninjas from Outer Space. Just without all the vampirism, roboticness and pirated sneakiness.

I’m absolutely scraping the bottom of the barrel here.

I got nothing.

And speaking of nothing. That was what I was afraid I would have had to have had for dinner tonight (That sentence seems far too convoluted to be right. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a have had in such close proximity to another have had. It’s like when you see one Vampire Robot Pirate Ninja. You would be surprised. You’d go, “What the fuck was that” or if you prefer something less colorful. “Egads! What in heaven’s name was that?”.

But then you’d move on and you might tell people at work about it, “Hey! I saw a Vampire Robot Pirate Ninja at the Burger King on Route one yesterday.” And they might believe you…or not. I rather think that more people would believe you rather than disbelieve you. Benefit of the doubt and all that shit.

“Yes, I’ve known him for a year now. He doesn’t get high…more than twice a week. Fuck it. Let’s believe him.” The “him” here is you who saw the Vampire Robot Pirate Ninja.

(Word is going insane with my writing. There are green squiggly lines everywhere. Like snakes reproducing in the spring. Green squiggly snakes. Or maybe organisms that are green and squiggly and reproduce in the spring. Fuck that, I’m no biologist.)

And they would believe you and you could talk about it at lunch. Or over dinner. Or use it as a pick up line at the bar.

You: “Hey I saw a Vampire Robot Pirate Ninja at the Burger King on Route One.”

Hot Blonde at bar: No way!

You: Oh yeah!

And then hopefully we shall pull a discrete curtain over some tasteful Horizontal Mamboifying. Or nasty Horizontal Mamboifying. Whatever tickles your fancy. Your Horizontal Mambofying could consist purely of your fancy being tickled..

Yeah, Lets abandon this train of thought.

But if you had the audacity to claim that you saw not one, but two fucking Vampire Robot Pirate Ninjas at the Burger King on route one you would be laughed out of town.

“Yes, I’ve known him for a year now. He does get high twice a week. Fuck it. Let’s burn him at the stake.” The “him” here is you who saw the Vampire Robot Pirate Ninja.

The lunch, dinner and bar scenarios are absent in this case because well you have been burnt bat the stake. Not a pleasant way to go, but completely your fault for making up stories about seeing two Vampire Robot Pirate Ninjas. The gall! )

So yeah. I found some noodles.

I got nothing. Really.

I am...

...many things.

But boring is NOT one of them.

(Take that you evil person, you. You know who you are!)

(I really, really like brackets.)

(And cheesecake.)

(And bru...Never Mind.)

(Add open ended statements to that.)

(And smirking.)

(And saying frig when I'm alone and fuck when I'm around people.)

(And making random observations. For instance, I came up with this wonderful plan for a friend who has issue with flipping people off on the road who annoy him. I suggested that he throw a salad at them.

Why?

Because nobody likes salads. And this shows that he put some thought into it, instead of a mere wag of that middle finger.

I said random observations. Not random and funny.)