A little help?

•August 5, 2008 • Leave a Comment

It’s come to my attention that some people don’t understand what the internet was meant to do. People seem to think that the internet is the accumulated knowledge of the world, that it helps people do business and communicate in the blink of an eye. These people think the internet exists to help them find cupcake recipes and homeopathic teas from Indo-China. You are wrong. The internet exists for two reasons: masturbation and making people feel bad about themselves (sometimes simultaneously).

Now, since some of us (me) have a constant stream of the opposite sex trying to break into their apartments for late night sex-stravaganzas ™, we don’t need so much of the internet’s masturbatory functions. For us, the internet is for spewing your vitriolic rage at strangers.

I was reading someone else’s blog, which I occasionally do because it makes me feel better about my own, when I saw a link to a different website, www.onblastatlast.com. If you haven’t clicked on that link yet, go ahead and open it in a new tab, because it’s important that you know where I’m coming from here. Ok, now go scrub your eyeballs with holy water and bleach. Better? Ok.

So, the owner/moderator/evil entity of onblastatlast.com wrote the following entreaty in the comments section of the blog I was reading: “I just made a list of the 10 ways you know your a douchebag!! If you could read my blog and comment, I’d appreciate any feedback!!!”

I visited his blog. Oh yeah, I visited the hell out of it.

Here’s the feedback I gave him:

Hyde: You should add “You type everything in your blog in all caps” to your douchebag list. I’m sorry, but people like you should be banned from even owning a computer in the first place. I’m not suggesting that everything we type on the internet should be free from typos and slang, but for Christ’s sake, glancing at your blog made me want to hijack a plane, fly it to California, land it in your backyard, politely ring your doorbell, then jack you in the face with a stepladder when you opened up. If the Earth were to be struck by a comet, I would want it to land on you. I seriously hate you. You make children cry, and not in the good way, like I do, but in the bad, bad way; the way “Old Yeller” makes children cry. Someday I will literally kill you (metaphorically speaking). Have fun “keeping it real”, you moron.

I love the internet almost as much as I hate it.

-M

Movie Review

•August 4, 2008 • 1 Comment

So, I was watching this movie, Funny Games, and thinking to myself, “God, this is horrible.  I wish the Earth would be struck by a comet so all evidence of this movie’s existence would be erased…” when I decided to regale you with a tale of my misspent youth (in college).

I had a professor with a senile disposition and a righteous mustache.  His name was Mr. Campbell.  The interesting thing about him was that, despite the fact that he was teaching a technology class, minor technological advancements completely dumbfounded him.  Here’s a transcript of a typical class period:

Campbell:  So, this website has a cgi object that keeps track of your visits to the site, and it will tell you “Good Morning!” if you log on in the morning, or “Good Afternoon!” if you log on in the afternoon, or–

Me:  (I stood up and flipped my desk over, scattering papers and frito dust everywhere) A FUCKING CLOCK!

Campbell:  Yes, Mr. Dowis, is there something you’d like to say?

Me:  You’re going on and on about a fucking clock!  It’s just a timer programmed to say shit when you log on!  Are you retarded or do you just have mercury poisoning?!  (I had been serrepticiously breaking thermometers in his briefcase for weeks, so it really could have been mercury poisoning)

Campbell:  I really don’t think that’s appropriate to say.  In fact–

Me:  I paid for this goddamn class, and I would appreciate it if you’d talk about some technology that actually interests me for a change, Mustachio Furioso.

Campbell:  I’ve asked you repeatedly not to call me–

Me:  For example!  Humanoid sex robots!

Campbell:  Really, this isn’t–

Me:  Satellites that can heat up a hot pocket from space!  Or, like, cars that run on Mountain Dew!

Campell:  I’m calling campus security.

Me:  Wait, wait!  Nanorobots that can jazzercise my muscles while I play Diablo II!  I’d be so ripped!  Oh, and also I get a jetpack and a life-sized Voltron that makes me grilled cheeses with bacon in them, and–

That’s as far as I got before campus security tried to drag me out of the room, whereupon I accidentally bit one of them and peed on the other.

The moral of the story is this:  Don’t watch Funny Games.  Ever.

Summer’s Over

•August 2, 2008 • Leave a Comment

Dear Reader(s),

As you may know, there have been no updates to this blog throughout the summer.  I know what you’re thinking: “Why, Lord?!  Why has he forsaken us?!”.

No need to curse your various deities anymore, kids, since I’m back and chock full of both inspiration and premium single malt whiskey.  Some of you may feel like I abandoned you for several months, so maybe I owe you some kind of explanation for my lack of posts.  First of all, fuck you, and second, here’s a list of reasons why I didn’t post over the summer:

1.  Premium Single Malt Whiskey

2.  Diablo II resurgence brought about by the announcement of Diablo 3.

3.  Busy punching children.

4.  Absinthe now legal in Michigan.

5.  Grillin’.

6.  Bought a Hookah.

7.  Slept a lot.

8.  Saw “The Dark Knight” every day for a week.

9.  Fuck you, that’s why!

Yeah, it’s been a full, rich summer.  Stay tuned for more posts!  I promise, this time.

~M

Clerk Conversations

•April 16, 2008 • 1 Comment

I work at a convenience store and it sucks.  But I have to say, we have some interesting conversations and some equally interesting encounters with less interesting people.  So, I’ve decided to start a series called:  Clerk Conversations.  The series will be loosely based on true conversations and events that have taken place at my place of employment.  Without further ado:

Clerk Conversations:  Autistic vs. Retarded

I grabbed a handful of gummi bears from the bulk candy rack and wandered idly around the store.  Occasionally, I would pause to pick up and peruse items, then put them back in the wrong places.  I stopped near the counter to read a flyer taped to the front window.  A line of customers was lazily winding its way toward the rear of the store.

“A little help, please,” said the female clerk behind the counter.  I was supposed to be working the other register.

“Look at this,” I said, popping a vaguely fruit-flavored bear in my mouth and tapping the flyer with my finger.

“This line’s getting really long,” she said, giving me a pleading look.

“‘Special Olympics’,” I read from the flyer.  “How retarded do you have to be to join the special olympics?”

A few of the customers glanced at me in disgust, trying to see if I was serious while simultaneously attempting to read my name tag, which should have said “Mike D.”, but actually said “Bruce Wayne!!!”.  If the higher ups don’t want me playing with the label-maker, they should do a better job of hiding it.

“I don’t know,” replied my co-worker. “I could really use some help.”  What a needy bitch.

“It’s a serious question,” I said, magnanimously ignoring what a selfish bitch she was being.

“Seriously, this line–” she started whining again until I cut her off.

“I mean, do they classify athletes based on their level of retardation?  Is there a ‘Retard Richter Scale’ or something?”

“Oh my God–” She began.  I did her a favor by interrupting her again.

“Seriously, are there retard qualifiers for the Special Olympics?  Do they separate events based on retard-type?  Is there an Autistic Hammer-Toss?”  I wandered back to the slurpee machine and filled a cup.

“Autism and retardation aren’t the same thing,” announced my supervisor, emerging from the building’s only office.

“Fuck you they aren’t,” I said.

“Why aren’t you at your register?” He asked suspiciously.

“Because my frozen cola levels were dangerously low,” I replied.  “Now explain to me how autistic people aren’t retarded.”

“They just aren’t,” he said.  “They’re two different things.”

“Can you tell the difference?” I queried.

“Well, no–”

“AH-HA!” I shouted, causing some of the nosier customers to glance nervously in my direction once again.

“That doesn’t prove anything,” he said.

“This line is getting really long,” said my incompetent co-worker from her perch behind the counter.

“In a minute, cupcake,” I said, using some film noir slang to grease the wheels with her.  Chicks love that stuff.

“Look, it’s like the difference between African Americans and blacks,” my supervisor explained.  “Not every black person is of African descent.  You can be one without being the other, but I can’t tell the difference.”

His logic was sound, though an analogy comparing black people with retards is probably considered politically incorrect in polite company.

“Really, guys, I could use some help here!” came a shout from our bitchy cashier.

“Jesus Zombie Christ!” I said amicably. “I’m on my way, doll-face.”  I made my way to the register, still arguing with my supervisor.

“So, by your logic, ‘black’ is a blanket term that includes ‘African American’ as a subset, right?”

“Right.”

“Then wrap your balls around this:  ‘Retard’ is a blanket term that includes ‘autistic’ as a subset!”  I smiled triumphantly.

“You’re using the word ‘retard’ in a colloquial sense,” he replied.

“Fuckin’ A, I am!” I said, or maybe yelled. “If you use the word ‘special’ as a politically correct synonym for ‘retard’, then you must be using the concept in a broad sense of the word.”

“Ok, so you’re wrong in a technical sense, but right from a colloquial standpoint.”

“I can live with that,” I shrugged.

“Excuse me,” interjected some blonde girl with puffy bimbo hair who had been standing in line, rudely eavesdropping on our conversation.  “My brother is autistic and I find this whole line of conversation offensive.”

“Why?” I said, ignoring the alarmed look on my supervisor’s face.

“Because my brother is not retarded!” she practically spat at me. “He’s autistic!”

“Who told you that?” I asked.

“His doctor,” she smugly replied.

“So, if a doctor hadn’t told you he was autistic, you wouldn’t have assumed that he was just plain old vanilla retarded?” I asked, ringing up her items and swiping her debit card.  I surrepticiously snagged her pin number:  4437.

“NO!” she shouted, outraged.

“You’re in denial, sweetheart,” I wrote my number on the back of her receipt. “Call me sometime, and I’ll help you deal with these guilt complexes you’re having.”

“This is ridiculous!” she raged.  I want to talk to your supervisor!  What’s your name?!”

I pointed at my name tag.  “‘Bruce Wayne!!!’, but we have several ‘Bruce Waynes’ working here, so make sure you include the exclamation points.”

At this point, my supervisor stepped in to mollify the bimbo before she developed an aneurysm.  I shrugged and stepped over to the bulk candy for a handful of gummi bears…

Google Sucks

•April 7, 2008 • Leave a Comment

I typed the word “funny” into Google’s image metasearch engine and got this:

Bitch.

While this image proves that soccer players are, in fact, bitches, it also suggests that goalkeepers, the lamest soccer players, can fly. Intriguing, but not funny. What we need is a metasearch that can scan my brainwaves and understand that when I want a “funny” image, I don’t want soccer.

The Greatest Love of All

•April 6, 2008 • 1 Comment

Hey idiots! Check this action out: there’s a wiki site for normal joe’s like you and me. Here’s my 100% true biography. The best part about this site is that you can edit other people’s biographies at will. I spent twenty minutes rewriting Miley Cyrus’ biography for Daniel O’Brien. Give it a try!

Russia’s Greatest Export: Ill Mitch

•April 1, 2008 • Leave a Comment

Behold the glory. Incidentally, this is how I’ve scored every girl I’ve ever been with. Seriously. All 3.2 million of them.