Posts Tagged ‘blogging’

Holy crap, two in two days?  I know, I’m about as consistent as Lewis Black’s attitude.  It’s not a perfect metaphor, I know, but I don’t see you trying to do any better.  Speaking of consistency, one of the things I’ve been doing in lieu of writing (besides drinking and running my third Tough Mudder) is getting in touch with my tech-obsessed side.

That’s right, I went around in the graveyard in the back of my mind and robbed the grave of my nerdier past.  I have to admit, I forgot how fun it was to advance my computer skills.  It all started back in April when Cortana brought back an old IBM x346 series server from work– free.  At that point, I got a technoboner– because I thought I’d have the baddest-ass home media server ever.  After firing it up and realizing how loud the bastard was (later dubbed The Frankenbeast, but that’s a different story), I still taught myself how to set up a RAID array and install Windows 7 on a completely nuked fossil.  The more it pissed me off that I couldn’t do my usual work-arounds (cabling bullshit, jump drive loads, etc), the more I was provoked to bend this piece of decade-old tech to my will.

You're not Skynet, don't even step.

The fuck do you mean “no drive found”? There’s fucking TWO.

Seriously, it was a case of I-will-not-be-fucking-beat-by-obsolete-tech.  Needless to say, I won– and upon seeing the system specs, I realized that this overgrown calculator (as my sister’s boyfriend put it) was probably the most powerful computer in the fucking apartment.  Then again, this server had all the processor upgrades and 4 gigs of ram– the ram alone made the damn thing 2x as brainy as the laptops.  Don’t laugh– we’re saving for a house.

Anyway– I get the bright idea to start dicking off with altcoins.  One thing led to your mother, and here I am with a Bitcoin mining hobby that can pay our fucking electric bill.  Yeah.  That got your attention, didn’t it?  I gave my computer a fucking job.  Cue a record scratch here, since most of you only accredit me with chemical tolerance and verbal atrocities.

You see I grew up around computers– as in my dad had a Commodore 64 to do his office bookwork on.  I cut my teeth on goddamn BASIC.  I grew up with DOS, Usenet, AOHell, and all the archaic shit that nobody uses anymore.  I’ve had an almost intuitive ability with anything computer related since I was a kid, and making shit work is just… easy.  Yes, that says a too much about what kind of kid I was– now quit sidetracking.  After getting out of computer science like a frustrated little bitch (still another story entirely, if someone really gives a damn)– I slummed it.  My *ahem* security breaching skills went from slightly disturbing to completely laughable, and primarily whipped Winblows after Winblows operating system to a point of not giving me shit– and no further.  In short, I got lazy.

Fuck off, Zoidberg!

[insert “could have been a contender” reference here]

I ended up ripping the OS out of my old laptop from college, put Ubuntu on it– then taught myself how to use it while figuring out how to install the bastard legacy Broadcom wireless driver on it.  Again, I got that whole nerd rage thing going on– and then figured it out.  If you’re expecting a defenestration somewhere, you’re shit outta luck– because here I am after having spent another whole night in the “mine” setting up my newest upgrade.

Mind you, I’m also pretty loaded.  So there you have it, I was going to make a “that’s what’s ripping me away from the keyboard” kind of sign off– then I realized that I traded in using one keyboard at a time for two.



“The power of accurate observation is commonly called cynicism by those who have not got it.” — George Bernard Shaw

A friend of mine recently posted a LifeHacker article entitled “How to Stop Being a Cynical Asshole.”  Naturally I took offense, because if the world had more “cynical assholes” like myself– well the world’s idiot population would still be checked by their own stupidity and probably exploited for our own amusement.  The article presupposes that members of my elite type of humanoid, the cynic, are the product of a defense mechanism gone wrong.

Plausible hypothesis.  But.  Well.  Wrong.

It’s a defense mechanism against stupid– and it’s what keeps us from utterly and completely losing our shit when faced with a sea of entitled fucktards that are breathing the air we share.  You’ll notice that most cynics have an astounding command of sarcasm.  That’s not a coincidence.

I got it from my parents.

You don’t say.

Cynics aren’t fans of optimists– because fuck you, the world isn’t just kittens and rainbows.  You might fart glitter, but that’s probably because you deep-throated a twitard two  nights ago.  Cynics also aren’t a fan of pessimists– because fuck you.  No, seriously, fuck pessimists in general– they’re never any fun.  Nihilists on the other hand…  oh wait, I’m getting sidetracked.  Back to deriding an asshat who dubbed himself a cynic and then self-righteously claimed it to be a downer.

Pal, lemme tell you from the other side of shit creek, you need to learn how to properly appreciate the very essence of what we are.  Cynics aren’t downers, those are pessimists.  We don’t like those, remember?  They’re never happy, and the world is out to shit on their heads after a Taco Bell binge.  Cynics acknowledge that there is usually some variety of fecal matter falling from the sky, but therefore we can do our best to not get hit with it.  It’s kind of like demanding the best out of your fellow human, but knowing the odds favor them being more worthless than an iPod shuffle to a deaf guy.

See, that’s the biggest bonus to giving in to your cynical nature and spinning it to your advantage and entertainment.  It’s the best kind of poetry.  We are always right, but when we’re actually wrong– we’re pleasantly surprised.  Tell me what’s bad about that.  Hey look, there’s a silver lining without having to brainwash yourself into ignoring the agonizing fact that life’s full of fuckwits that won’t get a reservation at the bullet buffet.  You don’t need some rose-colored specs to grin at the absurdity of life.

... ironically, I am a bit envious of idealists and their eyewear.

Now turn the whole thing on its head– imagine someone with ADD who pays attention to all the things at random.

Face it, if there were more cynics calling “bullshit,” the world would be a better place.  If there were more of us around, there wouldn’t have ever been a mortgage bubble– because it wouldn’t have lived past the cacophony of laughter at the guy proposing to sell and trade mortgages held by people who don’t pay their bills in the first place.  NSA spying?  We know everyone’s a bunch of assholes, and giving a cagy bunch of megalomaniacal ones unspoken power is an idea so stupid– the English language lacks the proper adjectives.  Have I made a dent here?  Bueller?

Fuck sakes, I could go on for hours– but if you don’t get it by now, I’m wasting my keystrokes.

The world needs us more now than ever.
Celebrate what it is to be smarter than the rest, and quit being a dick.  You might actually enjoy it.


I know this has bothered a lot of you, and it’s something that needs to be addressed.  There’s a certain… favored word in this English language that is… profoundly represented in my conversational vocabulary.  If you don’t know what word I’m referencing, I’m betting that one of the following two things are true:

A:  You really don’t know me very well.
B:  You’re f***ing stupid.

Honestly, if you don’t get it now, please do this world (and the human genome) a favor and go beer bong some Drano to fix what your mother’s coat hanger clearly missed.  Your grab bag of genetic party favors is like the shitty door prize that nobody wants at a benefit dinner.  Stop laughing, this isn’t funny– I’m trying to prevent Idiocracy here.



Yeah. Duck.

Some of you may have noticed that I was back to throwing fuck around like a dog marking the neighborhood for the brunt of my article— and wondered why I still kept things PG-13 around here.  I’ve been asking myself the same question.  For fuck’s sake, I’ve been read over 834,00 times over there– why should I give a flying fuck about watching my language here?  This little collection of gimp, drunk, fart, and jobless jokes hasn’t even gone over 9,000 yet (8,600 and change).

Abstaining from the occasional “fuck” is about as moot as…  you know what?  You make this joke.  I’m declaring a “gimme” and this is one double entendre that just makes itself.  I’ve tossed this fucker up for grabs, somebody grab the alley-oop.  Knock yourselves out like a double roofie in a vodka tonic, fuck– why don’t you complete it in the comments below?  Let’s have a little contest to see who’s got wit.

Anyway, I digress.

Back to the topic at hand: one of my top three four-lettered “F words.”  Fuck, you’d think it’d be liberating to write as I am wont to speak (fuck you, that’s not a typo.  Grab a fucking dictionary, you’re not getting a link for this one.)   Since I edit as I go, I can’t help but feel like I’m toeing the line of gratuitous fuckery with every other sentence.


So yeah…  In other news, I went to look up the terms “gratuitous fuckery” and “gratuitous assholery” for this quasi-random image… first picture on Google Image Search for the latter came from this blog… then found 5 other pictures.  Therefore– Spiderman thread.

Yes, I have a thing for four-lettered F words.  My favorite three, in no particular order, are:  free, fuck, and food.  While you process that, I will now cue you in on the best 12-letter sentence I can think of, “Fuck– free food!”  For those of you who aren’t fans of the hyphenate sentence structure (fucking English teachers) I propose, “Free food?  Fuck!”

So yes, with Pandora’s Box wide open like a hooker working a 7-Eleven, there’s no turning back.  Play my music, Lunchbox.


It’s no secret that WordPress allows me to see what search engines, and more specifically which searches, lead wayward surfers to my corner of madness.  Thanks to these stats, I’ve found a useful purpose for the FlirtChat bot– generating gratuitous traffic.  No freaking joke, I get more hits (probably from other digital floozies looking for tips) thanks to my tales of WhoreBot’s feeble attempts to give my computer digital AIDS.  Granted, such enticements of private camera boobies work on society’s more intelligent miscarriages; otherwise– who’d waste their time programming a digital skank with less personality than a lobotomy patient?  (Answer:  nobody)

Seriously, if you aren’t able to garner female affections– isn’t that what porn’s for?  Moreover, why would you trust these kinds of enticements via MSN and other chat programs?  You know what?  I’m not going to try speculating further; I might get some of the stupid on me.  Digression aside, the “recording” of WhoreBot is doing an arguably better job directing random traffic my way than she is spreading her binary herpegonnasyphilaids.

Put 'em to work, Bender!

“Obviously I need floozies! Let’s roll!”

So, ready for the punchline?  I appear to be getting more automated hits than I am actual readers (I can’t seriously be getting this much legitimate traffic from Malaysia and Indonesia).  It might be different if WordPress actually fixed the pervasive topic tag issue (instead of compulsively locking every damn support query about the issue), but hey– what can I ask for?  At least I have a few dozen loyal readers, and I’ve got WhoreBot doing work to keep the eg0-feeding hits rolling in.

The Rock may have millions and millions…  but like Mick Foley, I’ve got dozens and dozens.

Everyone’s gotta start somewhere, and I’ll take it.
Now if only Cracked would get off their asses and publish what they already paid for.


You’re asking yourself any of these questions right now: “What, exactly, does it take to break a holy-shit-o-meter?”  “Do those come with lifetime warranties?”   “Yours was way more durable than the rest– how in the Nine Levels of Hell did yours break!?”  Well, on Friday– January 25– at precisely 4:39pm, whilst conveniently and coincidentally taking a dump, my cell phone alerted me to an email.  I opened said email, and the ensuing colonic evacuation caused the porcelain goddess tap out– because I got the green light email from the Cracked Comedy Workshop.

For the first time in my life, I’m getting published…  I mean getting paid for my writing.

Hells to the yeah I am!

I thought I knew what this felt like. It has, again, been redefined for me.

Those of you who’ve been dedicated enough to read my slaphappy collection of miscarried thoughts, rants, and jokes– you know that getting published has been something I’ve been wanting with various degrees of conviction since I graduated from college.  While recovering from surgery, I took a slightly more serious stance towards getting published.  As you can see, “slightly” is a very relative term.

However, at long last, I got the green light.  It’s a damn good thing I was coincidentally subjecting a deuce to the witch test when I got that email– because believe you me– the individual witch had the rest of her odious comrades delivered on the double.  As it turns out, dozens of friends, family, former classmates, and former coworkers were right–  I actually can be a professional wiseass.

Wait.  Scrap that thought.  I am a professional wiseass!

Needless to say– I will hyperlink the article from the blog for you all to see.  I will be using a pen pseudonym (that some of you will definitely recognize), because I threw the Human Resource industry (and yes, it is an industry as well as a department) under the bus– backed that summbitch up– and then hit them again.

Sure, I’ve done that around here with my comparatively small reader base– but at…  I’ll garner literally hundreds of thousands of hits.  Since I’m still doggedly searching for a job (albeit with some success), I don’t need some butthurt sociopath blacklisting me because they read my article and realized that I’m onto their bullshit, and I just called them out with extreme prejudice.

Article subject matter aside– having my Holy-Shit-o-Meter blown to bits had a sweet side-effect.  I have a February 8 deadline for the article– but I wrote the whole damn thing in one night (proofread and edited it this morning).  I haven’t had this level of motivation to write (and ability to obliterate a writer’s block) since college.  I missed this feeling, and I’m all sorts of about feeding this addiction.

The first of many!!!

I’m getting published…. do dahhh do dahhh…

So yeah!  Let this be the beginning of a beautiful thing!  I’ll be emailing the finished article this afternoon after Cortana has a chance to give it an eyeball– then starting up on my next pitch.  I finally know what it’s like to make a dream come true.

Damn, it feels good.
I highly recommend it to every last one of you.

Go out.  Do it.


I’ve been gone for oh… oh so long, I’m sure many of you thought I hung up the proverbial boots.  That’s actually quite true, I had hung them up.  A lot has transpired since I took the time to sit at the keyboard and make fun of myself.  Let’s see…  I quit my previous job due to ethical concerns (and I’m not too broken up about it, really)… the next job had potential.  Hell, I was part of an opening crew of a restaurant.

Opportunities abound, right?  Well, not when the company hasn’t done their demographics– and builds a restaurant that has more logistical design flaws than [insert wiseass governmental reference here].

I mean I’m one hell of a bartender, but that… wasn’t bartending.   I now consider Pakistani kids in Nike factories kindred spirits of mine, and I’ll just leave it at that.  Yes, that’s a metaphor– apparently one that a certain someone on the face of this planet will never understand (and they’re a district manager, no less).

I can deal with…  “challenging” work conditions created by corporate stupidity and insane demands… but the second a corporate fat cat thinks he’s going to talk down to me (and repeatedly threaten my job) on top of that…

Yeah, I walked out of that job.  Get hostile with someone else.

I quit.

I was looking for an epic image of a bartender walking out of a restaurant, lighting a cigarette with the place in flames…. but, this’ll do.

Employment stupidity aside, I’ve got a contingency plan– that is, unless someone else happens to have a use for a caustic wit, and a way with words.  Quite literally, I’m for sale.  Well.  More like lease, Cortana holds the deed to my beautiful behind.

All employment shenanigans aside— you’ve all got me back.

… and all but fully recovered from my gimptacular status that spawned this little corner of the intarwebs.  How fully recovered am I, you wonder?  I’m to the point where I wonder if I should keep the tag line “the adventures of a right-handed lefty.”    That and Cortana and I did a Tough Mudder last month.

Yeah, I’ll get on that later.

Damn, I missed this.


She wanted a name…

Posted: October 12, 2011 in Self-Deprecation
Tags: , , ,

After many references made to my girlfriend (you know, done generically), she finally asked me for a name.  Granted, it would be a nickname for use on here– but a name nonetheless.  Her exact reasoning was, “You have names for your left and right hands; I think I deserve a proper noun.”  Right you are, honey, right you are.  So, like preparations for mass intake of alcohol, I put a good long thought to this.

This has posed more of a problem to me than pulling up a zipper one-handed.  Do I give her a random fake name, like thousands of other pretentious bloggers?  I could refer to her with some kind of cutesy-poo pet name (like how nauseatingly romantic couples do), but we’re bad enough in public as it is.  Not to mention, if I were to engage in that kind of behavior, my reader base would drop faster than a presidential approval rating… well that and I don’t have any sickeningly confectionery proper nouns for her.

Anyway, that leaves using proper nicknames in a fashion akin to Tucker Max.  If you don’t know where this is going, you’re either new here– or don’t know me very well.  Perhaps both, but I digress.

I just KNEW no good would come from this!

It's doubly not fair-- I'm still partially gimped, *and* I would never take a swing at a chick. If you see me with a black eye, do my self-respect a favor and don't ask.

Considering that the night we met, she corrected my shithoused summation of the parentage of Artemis (mixed it up with Athena), I could refer to her by a goddess’ name.  Then again, that’d be awfully Sheen of me.  I’m a big fan, but that doesn’t change the fact that it wouldn’t snow under my nose after getting punched.  Referring to her as a divinity might also go to her head, and my bed’s only big enough for one ego my size.  I’m being a realist here, don’t judge me.

I could refer to her as “Vodka Girl,” after a nickname that she told me she had at one point at UVM.  That wouldn’t work either, because that’d paint her in the wrong light.  I mean sure, she pretty much kept pace with me at homecoming— but nah.  It fails to represent her properly.

This request of hers is as bad of a double-edged sword as the question that has been the downfall of many a man, “Does this make me look fat?”  Seriously, I have to tread lightly.  She has ways of making my brain hurt itself, and the freaking cold I caught is bad enough.

"I've got a bad feeling about this." --Han Solo

This is either the path of genius, or utter stupidity. Maybe I should have taken the ego-feeding way out like any lesser (read wiser) man.

Well, dear, you asked for it.  I dub thee…  Cortana.

Yeah, that’ll do just nicely.   Why?   Because for the longest time, I thought a girl like her could never be physically real– just only exist in my head.  Yeah, my geek is showing, so I’m gonna go toss back a drink or three and get back to work on the costume.