May 2012 Archives

cow catcher

Remember when I railed about bicyclists stupidly organizing trips up speedy, narrow Metamuville Road?

This is worse.

Speeding up said road, I just passed an alarming sign nailed to a fence post: "LOST COW." They then proceeded to leave their phone number and a description of the cow.

"Hi, I have a lost cow in my yard," I imagine saying. "Can you describe yours?"

The problem with listing items on craigslist is, of course, that it involves other people in my life. No, esteemed sir, I do not wish to trade my refrigerator for your almost-functioning used chainsaw. Thanks for inquiring. And for debating me about it.

I listed my perfectly functional stainless fridge for $250, a tenth of its value new. Naturally I was inundated with misspelled inquiries about whether I was firm in that ridiculous price. "Can I ask how you arrived at that price?" asked a guy reading from Negotiating for Dummies.

"Sure," I replied. "I wanted it to move with a minimum of fuss, so I priced it an order of magnitude under its price if new."

"Huh?" he countered.

I finally sold it to a guy for $200. He watched passively as I cleared all my goods out of the fridge and freezer, then asked me for my help in loading the appliance into his trailer. As I watched my fridge teeter down my driveway, I breathed a sigh of relief that this latest craigslist experience was breathing its last.

My phone rang that night. He plugged in the fridge...and it was no longer cooling. I told him that it was probably in some half-thawed state that plugged the air circulation and that he should let it sit overnight. He muttered that he supposed that might be it....

He spoke with a lot of ellipses...

While the conversation went nowhere...

Eventually I realized...

That I was supposed to fill them...

With a unilateral offer of a refund....

When it became clear that I wasn't picking up on his social cues, he grew bold. "I'm hoping you'll work with me, here."

"I thought I was. The fridge works. You saw it. Let it sit overnight."

"I mean on a refund."

"On a refrigerator that worked fine when you unplugged it at my house? Not happening."

"Clearly, it has a problem," he growled accusingly.

I slumped, my phone at my hip. Good fucking christ, I hate people. I gathered myself.

"I'll tell ya what. Just so you know it's not about the money, I'm going to give you a full refund. No, fuck that. I'm going to give you three hundred dollars. You just turned a profit. And do you know what I'm buying for my money? This. You have to listen to me say that you're one entitled piece of shit. You bought a refrigerator on craigslist. You saw it work. You possibly broke it. And now you ask a complete stranger to pay for your misfortune. That's the definition of an entitled piece of shit. Do you maybe have some alimony or casino losses you'd like me to cover, too, motherfucker?"

He hung up on my ear. And I don't even know where to send his check.

Who would you kill?

White Guy Complaining about His Maid. This is me. She annoys me. A lot. She changes the direction of my toilet paper. She hides my bathroom trash can. She vacuums the couch without moving the throw pillows. And if she ever correctly seats the rotating glass thing in the microwave so that doesn't go clunk-clunk-clunk the next time I'm heating a Hot Pocket, I will drop dead on the kitchen floor. I make these complaints, despite the fact I know I look like a spoiled ass. I therefore humbly submit myself as a candidate for justifiable homicide.

White Guy with the Superfluously Black Co-Worker. This white guy tells a story about his company's Christmas party. In quoting what his co-worker Dave said, he cannot help but mention Dave's race, even though it has nothing whatsoever to do with the anecdote. Example: "So we're all exchanging Secret Santa gifts, and my friend Dave, who's black, groans that he got someone impossible to buy for."

Winner: I suppose I should recuse myself, but screw the racist dude. He can take the bullet.

This is for a niche function: you want to remote into a Mac from your Windows box. 99% of the material I found on the web was some flavor of "Get a VNC client like RealVNC and use OS X's native VNC support." The problem with this, as you've surely found if you found this post, is that VNC performs atrociously. It really performs no better than a service like LogMeIn, even locally, and VNC drops constantly.

I never found anything that works as well as Windows Remote Desktop, but the closest thing I found was Splashtop. I installed the free streamer on my Mac and the free Remote Desktop client on my PC, and I linked both pieces of software to a gmail account. It's crushing VNC's performance.

or a woman, which is three

I go back and forth on which of these clips is more unintentionally funny.

Deacon Jones strikes a blow for equal rights.

Antonio Cromartie names his kids.

Gentlemen, you are aware of what cameras are for, right?

20 years on

johnny2.jpg

Twenty years tonight, Johnny Carson sat on a stool said "good night" for the last time. I'll refrain from expressing my horror at how fast twenty years can seem.

When Johnny died few years ago, I tuned into his protege to hear his thoughts. Here's Letterman's pitch-perfect eulogy.

If you want to hear Letterman deliver what's essentially Johnny's last monologue, here's that clip.

WWYK: whiney bitches vs. bitchy whiners

Who would you kill?

Indians upset that a minor scene in the Avengers took place in an Indian slum. When 42% of your country is below the poverty line, perhaps you could more constructively channel some of the calories you expended bitching about a superhero movie.

Adopted folks angered by arguably the funniest line in the Avengers. We have officially become a nation of whiney pussies who parse every morsel of popular culture for offense so that we can claim victim status. And how dare Joss Whedon not include a doughy, bald superhero? I demand an apology, if not reparations.

Winner: This is really a tossup. I'm going to go with the Indians, though, because I'm sick of asking "Bob" from Calcutta to repeat himself on the phone.

cinco de mayo

Where I live is achingly white.

I don't mean Seattle. Lily-white Seattle is a veritable melting pot compared to where I live, the Kitsap Peninsula. The only times I've seen non-whites in Metamuville in 10 years is when I've hosted or hired them. Or, in d'Andre's case, when they briefly showed up to empty my refrigerator.

It's day-old dishwater dull.

When white people make every decision, travesties like this happen. The winners in the Best of Kitsap Reader Poll:

best of kitsap.png

I assure you that every one of those places sucks. They suck day-old dishwater.

"What the peninsula needs," I told a friend, "is an immediate infusion of gays and Mexicans. They'd change those poll results in about two minutes."

This is my new mission. I'm going to kill two birds and recruit gay Mexicans. I know exactly one, but I'm assured that he's really cute, so that's a start.

With any luck, Cinco de Mayo is gonna kick ass in a couple years.

wind me up, chuck

Not many people have heard of Chuck Brown, who died yesterday. It's a pity. His music is unique and upbeat to the point of relentlessness. I often put him on when I'm dragging. If the below description sounds appealing to you at all, I encourage you to check him out today.

From Rhapsody:
"A barn-storming ex-hobo who used to play for food but stuck around long enough to become a good-time ambassador for his community. He is also, as much as one person can be, the originator of a musical genre: go-go music, a hybrid of big-band '70s funk, multi-drummed Latin percussion, gospel call-and-response, horn-section jazz, old-school rapping and DJ-like song segues that evolved in Washington, D.C., through the '70s."

Who would you kill?

Uppity bicyclist. When you suggest that perhaps, just maybe, it's not the safest notion in the world for him to ride his bike in the middle of the lane on a congested road with poor visibility, he is instantly hostile. "I have every bit as much right to the road as you!" he snarls, as if this were remotely your point. And then, having grandiosely claimed equal rights, he casually blows through the red light at which you must stop.

"Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do" bicyclist. I deal with this guy daily. For some reason, hordes of him have decided that Metamuville is an awesome bicycling destination. Thus do these hordes wobble slowly down 2-lane, 10-mile long, 55 mph Metamuville Road, which alternately has a wide berm and no berm whatsoever. You're driving along at the speed limit, and suddenly you have to slam on the brakes to keep from killing a 'tard in yellow spandex who drifted in your path because he's trying to take a photo with his iPhone.

WINNER: Daisy, Daisy is tempting, since the iPhone thing just happened to me an hour ago, but math don't lie: giant dick > clueless moron. Uppity Bicyclist wins a spirited battle.

Who would you kill?

Chickenshit bigoted guy. You've seen him. He's all over web forums. Invariably, his ID is itself an idiotic assertion, like TRUTHspeaker. What his ID never is: his actual name. He uses a lot of CAPS. He types certain, declarative sentences, thinking this makes them more factual. He uses condescending language, thinking this puts you at a disadvantage. Examples: "I hate to tell you, Obama is a Muslim socialist." or "I'm sorry, but GOD HATES FAGS." For someone so clearly miserable, he also laughs a surprising amount: "I have to laugh at the way you lemmings slurp up the liberal media propaganda." He is everywhere. He makes damned sure of that. He could turn a local restaurant review into an indictment of affirmative action.

Chickenshit liker guy. That moronic "GOD hates fags" comment will doubtless have 17 thumbs up from other readers.

WINNER: I'm sorry, but Liker Guy makes me LAUGH. Bigoted Guy is a miserable, hateful cancer on society. Liker Guy is all those things, plus lazy.

open season

This "Who Would You Kill" series of posts is dedicated to Leon the Barber and one Larry Joe Bird. The connection is a tad strained.

In the 80s, the Detroit Pistons had a fan called Leon the Barber. He threw verbal daggers the opposing players. Rusty daggers. He was obnoxious.

When in his 60s, Leon yelled to veteran player Artis Gilmore: ``Hey, Artis, coming to our class reunion?`` That sort of thing.

Nothing was taboo to him. He desecrated photos of opposing players' mothers and mistresses. From his seat behind the bench, he would read loudly from their divorce decrees. Whatever it took to get in the head of the opponent.

Which brings us to Mr. Bird, a man of few words who nonetheless offered this gem when asked about Leon: "If there was ever an open season on fans, he'd be the first one I'd bag."

It is in this spirit that I dedicate my WWYK bracket.

Who would you kill?

The Underwear Bomber Yeah, he failed to blow up that plane, but just look at what this bumblefuck and his shoe-bombing cousin created. Please remove your shoes after your genitals' imaging, citizen. Oh, and I see a Happy Hanukkah is in order!

The Tylenol Killer Before this asshat, opening a bottle of steak sauce didn't require pliers. You twisted the lid. It came off. You poured. A few deaths from poisoned Tylenol later, that bottle had both the impenetrable plastic shield and the paper disk thing you either bite off or push in. Hell, even bleach has a safety seal. Lest someone poison the bleach.

WINNER: Tylenol Killer. I bite off fragments of paper disks way more often than I fly. Plus he, you know, killed some people.

darcy's bargain

Darcy, 26, offered this bargain: if I could be 26 again—but at the cost of having to repeat my entire career—would I do it?

I couldn't say "fuck no" fast enough. This surprised her.

"You know how you hate losing an hour's worth of work?" I said. Imagine it was 35,000 hours you had to do over again. I would rather die."

Now six months into her own career, she was, to say the least, alarmed by this. Is youth not worth a little work?

I've since posed Darcy's bargain to many peers, and I haven't found one who's even ambivalent. Eternal youth be damned; no one wants to repeat their careers. The older the friend, the more virulent the "fuck no."

"Absolutely not. No effing way," says Lynn, 59. "I look at people age 20 and think 'You poor bastards!' because of the 40+ years of slavery they will have to put in. And I don't see where doing a repeat with a different career would be one whit better."

Perhaps the real question is for the 26 year olds: why aren't you killing yourselves to avoid your careers?

Okay, I've made out my bracket. Together, we're going to decide who on earth most deserves to be offed.

"I Only Watch Soccer" Guy. There exists a female variant, but I'm old school enough to think talking about killing women rude. If this guy were content to only watch soccer, we wouldn't have a beef with him. But what he really enjoys is saying he only watches soccer, usually in response to you mentioning some other sport. "Yes," you reply. "I've always thought what American football really needs is more fan deaths, flopping and nil-nil matches." He's a close cousin of "I Don't Own a TV" Guy, who also lives life waiting impatiently for a chance to say that sentence.

"GET IN THE HOLE!" Guy. It started out with putts and short chip shots. Tiger Woods would plunk the ball toward the hole, and some idiot in the gallery would scream "GET IN THE HOLE!" I know. Me neither. Then it entered its ironic phase, where Tiger will be teeing up on a par 5 and someone screams ironically "GET IN THE HOLE!" Ha, ha. You're very witty. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Wow, you're not tired of that yet?

WINNER: "I Only Watch Soccer" Guy. Means of execution: strangling with his own vintage t-shirt.

grumble

I'm in a humorless, foul mood. Trust me, I'm sparing you.

Just for something new and kinky, I'd like someone to come to me and complain that I screwed something up at work.

oh, snap

It started with an intellectual exercise. "Who would you rather have license to kill?" I asked myself. "People who text in movie theatres or the douchetards who respond to complaints about texting by declaring 'Texting doesn't bother anyone.'"

To my surprise, it was the latter. In a walk.

Rude + stupid > rude

The problem with thinking about offing assholes is, frankly, stopping thinking about it. I might do some sort of field-of 32 tournament.

• • •

As I write this, three 22ish girls are cleaning my house. "Survey question," I just said. "Allowing that we're all guilty of doing it, is texting in a movie theatre rude or not?"

"Well, it is if you're on a date," said the smarter of the three.

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