July 2007 Archives

more spammer fun

You'd be hard-pressed to invent a name that, for men my age, less evokes thoughts of hot chicks.

----- Original Message -----

From: "Moses Malone"
To: John
Sent: Monday, July 30, 2007 5:12 AM
Subject: Re: pics

Hello! I am tired today. I am nice girl that would like to chat with you.

Email me at xxxxx.info only, because I am writing not from my
personal email. You will see some of my private pics.


As I fidgeted in my seat at the Port Townsend jazz festival, I attempted to devise a metric for measuring my enjoyment of this music form. Would I rather listen to this act, I wondered, or to a cat-stuffed washing machine being shoved down a flight of stairs during the spin cycle?

I settled on this: would I rather listen to this quintet or to the same five guys mowing a lawn at 7am on a Saturday morning?


On this, what would have been my father's birthday, I'm pleased to report that the alcoholic, wife/child-beating, cross-dressing, molester inventor of the anti-aircraft sparrow remains quite dead.

A birthday message for Dad:

It's not the humidity there, you know. It's the heat.

burgh humor

Much as with the mental collateral damage inflicted by girlfriends, thanks to Steelers fans, I know way, way too much about the Pirates. I don't care about the Pirates. I don't really care about baseball, for that matter. Yet there they are, taking up increasingly rare neurons.

I've come to appreciate the gallows humor with which Pittsburghers regard their truly lousy baseball team. The start of football training camp in July is annually hailed as the end of baseball season. On a report from training camp the other day, a reporter spoke of the scrimmage that the Steelers would hold in a local high school stadium. There's going to be a fireworks display afterward, he said, "And you don't even have to watch a Pirates game to see it."

The day before that, the Pittsburgh sports channel had about 20 minutes of coverage of the Steelers' camp in Latrobe, went to commercial, and then came back. The anchor's transition: "And now it's the part in the show where we must discuss the Pirates and their nine-game losing streak. But we don't want to, so let's go back to Latrobe."


I hopelessly corrupted the poll results by tweaking the question's wording midway. Although this renders my decidedly unscientific survey even more so, one changed word had a fascinating result.

When the question was

If a guy is masturbating to fantasies about a woman he knows, the woman's reaction should be...
results ran 87% "Flattered." After it was posted four hours, Allie called to say that, the anecdote about skanky guys notwithstanding, she didn't think it was clear that I meant that sort of guy. So I added the word "such." As in
If such a guy is masturbating to fantasies about a woman he knows, the woman's reaction should be...
I thought it a minor tweak, merely restating the obvious, but the subsequent results ran 93% "Queasy." Amazing reversal. Like Twain said, the difference between the right word and the wrong word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.

I was fairly abused by the fe-dership for this post. I shan't repeat the charges here, but I feel compelled to restate my original point: when a creepy guy is lasciviously objectifying you, is flattery really the healthiest reaction? Really?

Turns out men don't have exclusive rights on creeping me out.

• • •

Allie, like many women, said there was a big difference between a skeevy guy in a bar and someone she's actually attracted to. I went for the jugular.

"So if you found out Edward Norton was jerking off while thinking about you—" I began.


"—you don't find that the least bit objectifying or creepy or uncomfortable?"


"Sick. Tomorrow I'm totally posting a photo of him with a swastika tatoo on his chest."




I was out drinkin' with two women when an opportunity came to throw my own gender under the bus. I took it. I always take it.

Noting a skeevy acquaintance leering at them, I made a remark that he was putting them in his spank bank. There was no disgust. In fact, if I had to describe their reaction, I'd say it was "mild pleasure." I asked if they weren't repelled by the notion of such a guy fantasizing about them when he masturbated.

"It's actually kind of flattering," said one.

"Flattering," said the other.

Oh. Anyway. So I'm grossed out, and now I want to know if I'm just a prude or if they're kind of, well, vile. Survey time.

train wreck

I know I shouldn't read them. I know that when I finally wince and turn the page, I'll feel a little more disassociated from humanity than I already do. Yet I'm irresistibly drawn to letters to the editor. I'm even drawn to the reliably illiterate letter in Entertainment Weekly that emotes about the breathlessness-inspiring beauty of whoever was on the cover the week before. What makes me look? For the love of god, what makes me look?

Letters in newspapers, meanwhile, all seem alike to me. I swear the same two people write them. Or maybe they're just Mad Libs.

To the editor:

As I watch flowery reference to what a child or flag is doing , I wonder when derisive term for people who reasonably disagree are going to WAKE UP and realize that authority is just going to keep incendiary assertion supported by not a lick of evidence ? I mean, COME ON, people! It's bad enough that you straw man like "don't support the troops" or "impeach for blowjobs" , but now you want to something fabricated . Let's compare same authority figure 's policies to Hitler's. Hitler banned religion, and same authority figure wants to ban all something no one has ever actually advocated banning .

Gee, derisive term for people who disagree , I didn't know you wanted to live in Nazi Germany so much. The truth hurts, doesn't it? Why don't you WAKE UP and stop slandering everyone who disagrees with you?

Cooter P. McNugget, ESQ

the best part of the transformers movie

For more reasons than one:

chandra credit.jpg

Note Chandra's screen credit. Perhaps she can get my nine bucks back from Michael Bay.

Lest she get too swelled a head, I shall now run a photo taken during her interminable "my life's dream is to be a bass player in a band in Seattle" phase.


pizza rollup

It turns out that square pieces exist in every corner of the East Coast. Go figure. I didn't get the sense they're as pervasive as they are in Columbus, but I was gratified that my hometown wasn't unprecedented in its freakishness.

I'm sitting in my house awaiting the transcontinental delivery of pizza, surely the best possible use of my time or anyone else's. The pizza is arriving not from New York or Chicago but from my hometown of Columbus. It's a Massey's Pizza, and as such it will be cut like no other. The pieces will be rectangles (see figure C). This is only mildly weird in Columbus, where pieces are almost always cut in tiny squares (B). I was describing this to an appalled Jersey (A) girl, Katrina, and I got to wondering if square pieces are unique to the midwest, Ohio, or even just Columbus. If in your neck of the woods they cut it any way but A, lemme know.


• • •

The slogan at the end just screams "my hometown" to me. I'm very proud.

hit o' the day

I've long wanted to spend a week writing posts that give Googlers what they came here for. "What decade whore high knee socks?" comes to mind, as does "Snffng [sic] womans [sic] ass crack." When you see that searches like those led someone to your site, it gives you pause.

But then sometimes, you're just filled with a sense of wonder. Yesterday, someone searching on "antique twat" found my site.


Mentoring is generally rewarding, but then there are days like yesterday that leave me grinning the whole drive home. Libby is my best protege yet. She challenges me like few have. I have to work hard to keep up with her. We've covered six weeks' worth of intense grammar in about five hours. I try to trip her up, to trick her, to humble her, and she jacks everything I throw at her right out of the park. And then she demands a high-five.

I'm going to be working for this girl within three years. I intend to take credit for her ascent. That's my M.O.: identify thoroughbreds right before they explode out of the gate, hitch my wagon to them, and take wholly undeserved bows for their accomplishments. It's so much easier than accomplishing something myself. Is this why people have kids?


There's one demographic in my life more pervasive than ex-girlfriends. Three of the last six weekends, I socialized with an ex-boss. Tonight, I see a fourth ex-boss. Yet another ex-boss is talking with my neighbor Percy about buying his house. I'm crawlin' with 'em.

I'm not sure how this happened. If I were any kind of worker, I might better understand their lasting affection, but I'm a truly ghastly employee. Yeah, I'm nominally competent, but I whine nonstop, I stoke team paranoia, and it's downright laborious to get me to do my job. I've entertained the idea of having a "boss party," but then I imagined Terrell raising her hand and conducting a poll: "Who here never got a lick of work out of John?"


Last week, my current boss, Jo, asked what I was doing Saturday night. I was going out to dinner with an ex-boss. Jo was hurt and frustrated not to be in the club. "When's it gonna be my turn, John?"

the last word

I blundered upon the technique when I was 21. I had just told my sister Nadine that she was miserable and unkind and that I didn't want anything to do with her anymore. She countered by leaving an unremitting stream of poisonous invective on my answering machine. At least the first message was. I didn't listen to the other 20 or so. Confounded by my answering machine's two-minute limitation, Nadine called and called and called again. When the calls stopped, I walked over to the machine and pressed Delete All. I was past the point where I cared what she said about me. If it meant I'd heard the last of her, would gladly let her have the last word.

I wouldn't hear from her for eight years.

Score! I would come to call this my "last word policy." The basic human need to have the last word dovetails perfectly with the John need to avoid basic humans. Giving assholes the last word costs me nothing, especially if I don't actually read/hear it, and it invariably provides peace. The other party becomes preoccupied with denying me the last word, and they leave me alone, lest they lose their status. It's bliss.


Dorkass rebuts yesterday's post with:

Hey, maybe I do have a life, which is why I haven't seen any movies!
Katrina, meanwhile, asks how many movies one must have in her queue before being deemed a loser. I would think the answer, "more than I have in my own," is self-evident. Most trolls checked in with numbers < 100, but distinguished Stank troll Val "won" the competition with a mere observation:
So. Did you know that you can put only 500 DVDs in your Netflix queue at one time?


That's how many movies Dorkass has in her Netflix queue. Can anybody beat that? Can any four people combined beat that?

For the record, my queue has 11.


Is it just me, or does this story about having a funeral for the n-word read exactly like an article in the Onion?


door.jpgWhen I replaced my front door, one concern superseded all others: it must be opaque. Percy had developed the unfortunate habit of staring through the glass before knocking, and he'd seen me naked just a few hundred dozen times too many. Okay, it was maybe four times. But it felt like a few hundred dozen.

And thus did I order an expensive "rain" glass that I did not particularly like. My door is now impenetrable to the geriatric eye.

Percy, for his part, has completely changed his behavior. Now he walks all the way around my deck and knocks on my back door. After staring inside for a bit, of course.

exhibit a

For posterity's sake, here is the Q-Tip I grabbed when reaching for a new one.


I didn't photograph any floaters. You're welcome.


During my Week of Phlegm, I used up my personal stash of unwatched DVDs and forged on to the video store. There, among other things, I rented "Invincible." I knew that it starred Marky Mark and was about football, and that's about where my bar was, so I grabbed it. Had I noticed that it was yet another Disney sports movie, however, I would have passed. I've already seen it. Many times.

Our hero is generous, kind, beloved. He is nevertheless dumped on by society. He's too poor, too old, too black, too something. His life is systematically reduced to rubble before our eyes. He's left with only his dream. His dream involves sports. At first, he gets no respect. People mock him. Only a good woman believes in this loser. She is improbably hot. He thinks about quitting, but he doesn't, because the dream is all he has left. And wouldn't you know, he succeeds. In a brilliant musical montage, he earns his detractors' respect play by play. His onetime critics hoist him up on their shoulders.* Fans cheer. Our hero basks in applause, his good woman by his side. We learn in the American Graffiti–style end titles that they lived happily ever after.


*If our hero is black, this is replaced by "One-time hate-spewing racists, suddenly seeing the light, now cuddle him."

solitude, good

Not for nothing, but when I stay in someone's home, I try to leave it how I found it. My goal is to leave no evidence of my brief existence there, but for perhaps a few crushed Diet Coke cans in a bin. Not everyone shares this ethic. I go back and forth on which development pisses me off more:

  • A guest showing up at my house with a horrendous hacking cough and sore throat, both of which I now have.
  • Being asked why she can't just use my bath towel instead of taking a fresh one from the rack a foot away.
  • Streaks and floaters in my toilet. All weekend. Eat some fucking vegetables once in a while.
  • A used Q-Tip, brown and yellow crud intact, making it back into the Q-Tip box for me to find.
  • Huge, mysterious brown stains all over my nice white guest robe.
  • Cigarette butts somehow making it on the floor of my kitchen.
  • Leaving my guests in my Jeep while I run into the store, returning 10 minutes late to an empty Jeep with its windows still down and my video iPod still prominently displayed on the dash, then being scolded for thinking this might have been a problem. "Waitasecond," I said. "Are you actually maintaining that if you left the doors unlocked and the windows down and the iPod was stolen, it would have been my fault?" Yes, came the answer, for I shouldn't own such an expensive thing.

the hose guy

I've been challenged by Stank troll Tony to name something about men that I admire. It's my pleasure to serve.

You know the guy. He's overweight, blotchy, untoned, untanned. He's in his driveway, shirtless, with his paunch hanging over his jeans. He's hosing off his car. He sees a passing friend, or maybe even you driving by, and he waves, completely without self-consciousness. Hell, he puffs out his chest with pride. I love this guy. I don't love looking at him—I, myself, wear a shirt for a reason—but I admire his self-image. This is mental health.

Contrast that, then, with any given woman having a meltdown in front of the bathroom mirror. She's got the most acute vision in the human kingdom, and it's spotted a flaw that's going to ruin her whole day. You try mightily to see the flaw, but you fail, and she thinks you must be lying, as the flaw could be neither more ghastly nor more obvious. I do not admire this psychosis. Give me the hose guy.

horror show

You might recall that Lynn was once the center of footwear controversy here on Stank. And on it goes. This is what she wore to listen to live chamber music Saturday.


And simply because it was inevitable:


moron taxonomy
stupid church signs
super bowl xl officiating
percy chronicles

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