October 2013 Archives

reader mail: fashion senseless

Longtime reader d'Andre asks, "So, do you get your clothes off dead vagrants' corpses?"

Ok, I admit that's a lie. He doesn't read.

reader mail: pittsburgh abortion

Asks Robert: "So how glad are you that you decided not to spend this season in Pittsburgh?" (1, 2)

Glad. Unbelievably glad. The glad courses through my body like so much pepperoni grease.

Fact: during this weekend's loss to a wretched Raiders team, my power went out mid-play. All I felt was gratitude. It was like someone pulled a needle out of my eye.

reader mail: fighting & me

Longtime distinguished Stank troll Marta asks, "You must get punched a lot." Which isn't really a question, come to think of it, so much as a diagnosis. Screw you too, Marta.

It happens. It hasn't happened in years, though. Living in Metamuville helps. Geriatrics may shake their fists at you for being on your own lawn, but they don't actually hit you.

Not counting a violent drunken shove at the Super Bowl, the last two times I've been punched were 1) in my right ear 2) by drunks from whose verbal abuses I did not wilt. I don't understand the ear thing. Maybe they were aiming for my face but were that drunk.

Outside of sports, I don't start altercations. And I don't finish them, either. Thanks to my older brother, I can take a punch to the face. Also thanks to my brother, I don't have a flight reflex. When you're punched every day of your entire childhood, it becomes part of the background noise of your existence. So someone will pop me one, and it hurts like hell, and then I look at them quizzically and go "Really?" This usually enrages the person more, but my confusion and response are genuine.


Remember mailstorms? When someone would accidentally email a distribution list of thousands of strangers, each of whom replied-all Please take me off this thread/Me too/Me too? Inboxes overflowed! Mail servers crashed! Mailstorms were common at Microsoft and other corporations in the 90s, but I hadn't seen one in a while. I'd like to think this is because people learned, but it was probably because IT groups devised a filter.

Now I'm experiencing a throwback, an honest-to-goodness, old-timey mailstorm. So nope, people aren't any smarter. The jokes are better, though. My two favorite reply-alls follow.

Someone graphed the correlation between employee newness (high employee number) and replies.


And then this. I almost proposed on the spot.

-----Original Message-----
From: [redacted]
Sent: Wednesday, October 23, 2013 6:54 AM
To: [redacted](mailer list)
Subject: How to unsubscribe

Hi everyone,

Here's how to unsubscribe from this mailing list.

1. Go to http://hr.redacted.com/
2. Select 'My Job Info'
3. Select 'All other tasks'
4. Select 'Employee Services'
5. Select 'Resignation Confirmation.
6. Fill in and submit the form. Be sure to include the phrase 'Too stupid to live' in the comments section.

Thanks everyone, I hope this helps.


PS Here is a recipe for rainbow cake. http://madefromscratchinbk.wordpress.com/2010/12/26/rainbow-cake/

girl math

I've been listening with interest, and admittedly a little self-interest, to the travails of fair Susan as her crap marriage circles life's toilet bowl.

Along the way, I'm learning more about her, and there's definitely a point of diminishing returns on learning things about people. Learning about people is never good for attraction. As a person morphs from unattainable ideal into a real person, that person invariably becomes less appealing to me. I've mentally added about forty pounds to Susan. And back hair.

"She's into CrossFit." +2 pounds

"Actually, she teaches CrossFit now." +8 pounds

"She's really into walking. She walks everywhere." +30 pounds of hairy neck goiters

chrysalis bumsband

Karyn's boyfriend is maybe 22, and sometimes he comes along to "help." This help usually manifests in him trapping me in interminable, stupid conversations. I don't know if he has older brothers or even friends, but the limited evidence suggests a scarcity of men in his life. I don't care about NASCAR, or paintball, or websites with revolting videos on them, yet Rob slings these topics into my life. If I know he's coming, I leave the house. I'd rather have him rob me than talk to me.

It's been six years since I last taught, and Metamuville ain't skewin' any younger, so Karyn is the only college-aged person I know well. As such, she's the recipient of anything I don't need anymore. She just received, for instance, a perfectly good Pottery Barn dish set, all for the low, low price of not making me help her carry it to her car. Thanks to my midlife allergy flareup, she's similarly gotten a couch, a never-used down comforter, and a really sweet vacuum cleaner. Karyn is over-the-top grateful and guilty-feeling.

Rob, an unwanted beneficiary of my gifts, has a different reaction. Peering into my cabinet and seeing some dessert plates, he asked "Do you still want these?"

"I noticed some computers in your bedroom closet," he actually said to me after "helping" "clean" my house. He dug his toe into my floor coquettishly. "Do you want to get rid of any of those?"

"The computers currently running? That my business uses every day? Not particularly."

Undeterred, he's continued to ask if I still want other things he covets. It can't hurt to ask, apparently. Mi casa es su smorgasbord.

i just called

"I'm going out of my mind," said Karyn when she called me Saturday. Karyn is a girl half my age who helps me out from time to time, running errands for me when work traps me in my house for weeks on end. Or just when I'm feeling especially lazy. Her boyfriend was out of town last weekend, and she was bored. "Do you have anything for me to do?"

Given the magnificent slate of football games I had ahead of me...no miss, thank you, but I don't want you here. "Can I watch football with you, then? You'll have to explain what's going on."

This was even worse.

I said I supposed she could tackle the guest room closet. It was 80% crap that had accumulated over my 11 years here. And thus did she take notes while I designated what was crap destined for the dump.

"Here's Maddie's mom's clock radio. That's junk. Here's Kate's espresso maker. That's junk too. Why do I have coffee filters here? (Drew a blank. I don't know whose those were.) Here's a teapot I got for Allie. Shitcan it. Here's a portrait Sarah drew. Junk it. Here's the camera Pam brought me back from Singapore. Junk. The hell is this? Amy's blouse? Eeesh. Junk it. Here's notes from Khristi. Chuck 'em..."

And so it went, us sifting through my relationship debris. Eventually, a numb Karyn drifted outside on the balcony, where I heard her call her boyfriend on her cell. "I just called to say I love you."


On this, the glorious occasion of director Michael Bay's assault, I share with you a sign that the world is going to hell.


heated tile, part ii

I've taken my share of abuse over installing heated tile in my bathroom, and justifiably so. I'm a fancy boy. But people: do you realize that if you toss your dirty clothes on the bathroom floor during your shower, when you put them back on, they're warm just like they're fresh out of the dryer?

resistible link of the day

I've said it before, but never with as much conviction: al Qaeda has officially lost.



I can't wait for Gravity: The Play. No longer encumbered by all the needless CGI, these fascinating characters and the rock-solid science will really be able to shine through.

i am so smrt

Summer has concluded, and with it ends the monthslong battle between the air conditioning, which makes my bathroom tile unpleasantly cold, and the heating element under the bathroom tile, which negates the effects of the air conditioning. I think it was Jesus who said, lo, hark, there is no problem that electricity causes that more electricity cannot solve.

i'm pretty sure god likes ugly

Bad day? Beat this.

I ended a long, miserably long day of work by soberly cleaning up my desk. I placed my lunch plate in the kitchen sink. I was hosing off some crumbs when the braided hose snapped, causing a torrent of ice-cold water to rape every orifice in my face. Eyes stinging, I watched the severed hose shoot snake-like down the faucet stem and into the cabinet below, which it promptly filled with water.

For the fantastically lazy, here's a godsend: Google Maps is plotting the aisles of Home Depot now. This means, of course, no more coin-flips when parking. If all you need is a brick, you can park with confidence by the bricks.


moron taxonomy
stupid church signs
super bowl xl officiating
percy chronicles

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