Monday, June 23, 2014

It's A Beautiful Day

It's been a long time.  I shouldn't have left you.  But maybe stop being so damn greedy, friend, because it's not like you've just been languishing along, alone and afraid all this time without a dope beat to step to or anything.  Seriously. 

There's a reason I'm back,  though, even if our magical time together is only fleeting.  I got a call this morning.  Yeah, I'm bragging.  Did you get one?  Anyway, in the call, the person on the other end - the Caller if you will - was working up some pretty impressive sniveling about the besieging of his body by what I can only assume is the rotovirus that will end humanity.  Then there was some discussion about meetings or cubicles or colleagues with chin pubes or I don't know - I was in Target and also awake so I was having a hard time keeping up with all of these trials and tribulations that honest to God wage-earners go through during their day to day.  But then Caller was all, "Hey, guess what?  It's JT's birthday."  And I was all, "Remember the dark days in between when sexy used to be here and the time that it was not yet back and we just kind of plodded through, like, dead-eyed raising the roof or whatever, just totally unaware of all the sexy that was yet to knock us on our asses with its inevitable, glorious return?  I like to call it the Resexyrection and --" and then Caller totally rudely interrupted and was like, "I'm not talking about Justin Timberlake, I'm talking about Trainor and were you just putting sexy into the word resurrection because I feel like there's some blasphemy going down if so, but..." and he kept talking but I was still in Target so it's not like I was listening anymore.

But.  Then Caller was like, "so, maybe you could send Trainor a happy birthday text or whatever and it could be funny if you'd like make fun of me, or whatever, because that's funny."  Ear perk.  Is it?  IS IT?  Tell me more, my little green friend. So how should it start?  How about the classic "So a rabbi, a priest, and a computer programmer walk into a bar holding a rental purchase agreement..."?  We've all heard that one 1,000 times, though, am I right?  Or, like, do I throw in birthday wishes in the middle of my jab about how some people are so stupid they don't even know all the details about the New Jersey tax implications (and don't even get me started about the California rent-to-own tax implications. Only a real moron wouldn't understand those - you know what I'm sayin'? And, by the way, Oooweee!, them's a lotta candles on that cake).  It's just not seamless, you know?  And, in a text?  P'shaw.  You might as well just ask me to send my trite HBD hopes and dreams to old John -- on the anniversary of that first day he soared head-first (assumedly) out of his mother's warm uteral hug and into this cold, hard earth -- via Facebook.  Shudder.  I'm not a complete asshole. 

So, that brings me here. 

Instead of being another HBD Facebook asshole, I'm gonna be an Eggs a Lady asshole and discuss some of John's brethren and sistren (it's sexist that sistren isn't a word.  The Establishment should be ashamed.  ASHAMED!) with whom John shares a birthday on the luckiest of all days, June 23.

First, obviously:   Clarence Thomas. Besides (frankly, uncannily similar) dashing good looks and  likewise poetic ways to beautifully mold and twist a phrase in the English language, both CT and JT hold command of a floor like no other.  They make decisions like their jobs depend on it or something.  While one's an associate, the other is an  actual Chief - a Chief of Information, mind you (hat tip, by the way, to the creator of that job title), so I guess they both know a thing or two about working it like a boss.  But, wait.  Chiefs are obviously better than associates, so suck it, Clarence Thomas.  John is superior.

Next, it is important, nay crucial, to note that June 23 is also the date of birth of the best American Idol judge besides Simon Cowell or one-time guest judge Mary J. Blige that Fox TV has ever seen.  Mr. Randy Jackson.  During this paragraph, I would like to use the word dawg a minimum of 4 total times, dawg.  Here are four musicians Randy Jackson has worked with that I'm going to go ahead and assume John has in his iTunes repertoire, dawg:  Blue Oyster Cult, Richard Marx, the incomparable Celine Dion, and Stryper.  Once I had a dream that Randy Jackson and I were eating at an Outback Steakhouse and we both reached for the same bite of bloomin onion and lightning shot through my veins just as I am sure it is presently shooting through yours during this electrifying retelling.  Dawg, Randy's pure animal magnetism during my REM state screams June 23.  It screams Mr. Trainor.  But, nope.  People tell me when he walks through the halls of the old business-place, old JT is making ladies and gents alike swoon like it's nobody's business.  Nobody.  Oh, crap.  That's obsolete.  Old JT is making ladies and gents alike swoon 'cuz he's Owning it.  Keep on owning it, John.  Own it harder than Randy Jackson.  Own it harder than Tito Jackson.  Just Own It, boss.  Own It.

There are so many other June 23 Spirit Animal People (People Animals?  Spirit People?  Dope Ass Shit Gemini-Cancer Cuspers?) who John is similar to but also better than.  People like LaDainian Tomlinson who once said, "Absolutely. You're going to definitely think about the games that got away, what you could have done different."  Do I think John thinks about games that got away, stores that missed sales quotas, the pre-approval process as it relates to man's search for meaning in an often dark and meaningless, mysterious world?  Obviously I think that.  Do I hate it that LaDainian Tomlinson assumes I am going to think about those things?  Yes I do.  Does it make me want to punch someone in the vas deferens everytime someone doesn't add an l and a y to make the word different an adverb instead of an adjective when modifying a verb?  You bet your sweet ass it does.  But this is about John, not me.  So instead of betting your sweet ass, let's just think of John's sweet birthday ass, instead.  

There are others.  So many others.  Jason Mraz of the whitebread, neither here nor there voice that makes me want to study logorithms and drink a Slush Puppie just because.  Johnannes Gutenberg, whose whole being was kinda shaped on a career that by its very definition John kinda spits into the face of each and every day with that whole "Screw You, Paper; I'm an Officer of Information" title.  There's Bob Fosse (JAZZHANDS!) and June Carter Cash and even Joss-my-name-rhymes-with-Boss-but-I'll-Never-Be-as-Boss-as-Trainor Whedon, as well, dawg (I missed saying it.  Sue me.).  But it's clear that John rules supreme, I mean rules chief, above all the rest.

So, I'd like to raise a blog post to the original JT, on the anniversary that our land was graced with his presence.  So, whatever, Texts.  Screw you, Facebook Happy Birthdays.  This here is my here here (hear hear?) to Mr. T.  Happy Birthday, Chief. Happy Freaking Birthday.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Getting to Know You

Long time no talk, eh?  Well, you were so busy with that thing at work, and I've been taking all of those meetings with the Dutch lately, so, you know.  People drift apart.  Let's not let it happen to us, okay?  We're not like everybody else.  How about this:  How about we get a little closer today?  You know how I struggle with commitment, but today I'm going to let you in just a little bit, just to prove how much you mean to me.

Today, I'm going to divulge some secrets.  Not about me, but about my husband.  That should count as something.  Today I'm going to share and subsequently debunk

10 Names My Husband Has At Some Point Claimed He Was Called in College (But He Really Wasn't).

1)  The Holepunch - No he wasn't.  Of any office supply, he's characteristically so much more similar to White Out, I think.  So, if you know him, feel free to latch on to that one, 'cuz The Holepunch, he is not.

2)  Papa Smurf - Um, no.  Maybe that one time that one guy said that thing about giving handies to your mom and that other guy was like, "Yeah.  We should call him Handy Smurf" and my husband had had too many Southpaws or whatever shitty keg beer was in the backyard and he decided he'd latch on to that but change it a little and try to be Big Papa Smurf, but, no.  He wasn't.

3)  The Alabama Slamma  - I don't even know what the hell this is supposed to mean.  Is it because I'm from Alabama?  Don't let him try to tell you he was the Slamma.  Not even for one day was he eva tha Slamma.  P'shaw.

4) Senor Smoke - This one is really ironic, actually, because people did call him Juan Berenguer back in the day.  Man, life is really funny.

5)  Soul Train  - Nope.

6)  Beastmaster 6000 - WTF?  Really?  Not.  Possibly for eight months - maybe nine -  he was Beastmaster 6001, but Beastmaster 6000?  Hardly.

7)  DJ Minute Rice, What? - What?  Like the "What" is supposed to be part of the DJ name?  Huh?  Is it Minute Rice because he's white?  Does he think he was a real life deejay, too?  Does being on the cutting edge of downloading literally every Terence Trent D'arby track including the deeper cuts via Napster count as being a real life deejay?  Cool name, big guy. People never called you that.  Never will, what?

8)  George Peppard  - Oh?  Colonel John "Hannibal" Smith?  Yeah.  That happened.  Mmmhmmm. 

9)  I Toed Her Wet Sprocket - Ick.  Gross.  He didn't.  Nobody ever said he did. 
10)  The Swiffer  - He wishes. 

Confessions.  They really do strengthen the bonds that can't be broken, don't they?

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

To Infinity and Beyond

If I know you (and I think I do), then you used to wake up early on Saturday morning, run downstairs, grab a heaping bowl of Cookie Crisp and roll your eyes at your sister's choice of chocolate-free-therefore-obviously-healthy cereal choice of Sugar Smacks.  You'd then pull your Underoos out of your butt and settle in to a hour or four of some combination that - depending on that year's tv lineup -  included (but was not limited to) the Smurfs, Shirt Tales, Alvin and the Chipmunks, Dungeons and Dragons, The Muppet Babies, Hulk Hogan's Rock-n-Wrestling!, The Littles, Pee Wee's Playhouse (and the list goes on and on) followed by a decently enjoyable ABC Weekend Special.

Anyways, a common motif in a typical Saturday morning show plotline was a genie or a magic alien or some grand poobah flying in and POOF! granting three wishes to our program's protagonist.  We've already established that I think you're like me.  So, I think that the two of us can agree that each and every time the plot rolled around to that played-out three wishes storyline, before our main character even thought about what his first wish would be, you and I were precursively (10-4.  I know.  Not a word.  Should be.) yelling at the screen, "ASK FOR MORE WISHES!  WISH FOR MORE!"  You had probably discovered if not quite understood the definition of "infinity," so you likely yelled something like this:  "INFINITY MORE WISHES!  YOU WANT INFINITY MORE, DUMMY!"

Well, just this morning I found myself wishing for a couple of things in my head, and then I began greedily wishing for more, and then I decided I should probably compile these so I can be prepared when my own Great Gazoo flies in to ask me what I want.  Infinity wishes are only worth something if you have something to wish for.  So, here goes.  The beginning of my list:

1)  I wish instead of having ten fingers, humans came equipped with eleven, except that the eleventh finger is a spoon.  This would be so handy.  You'd never have to pull a spoon out of the silverware drawer to eat your pudding again.  I would prefer that the spoon digit be another thumb-type deal, but, hey, I'm not going to be a diva about this whole thing.  Oh, I'm sorry.  Did I just catch you rolling your eyes?  What are you, Sarah Palin? (that, um, wasn't political commentary, mmkay.)  You think our spoon finger is gonna get in the way of things?  I thought of that.  It's retractable.  Yeah.  It'll fold back into our wrist.  Or something.  Anyway, it'll be awesome.  You're welcome in advance for the betterment in your anatomical ability.

And while we're speaking phalangically...

2)  I wish I could figure out Chinese handcuffs and not tear each and every freaking pair I ever owned.

3)  I wish I could still find Grandma's Fudge Chocolate Chip cookies somewhere on God's Earth. Not my Grandma - Frito Lay's Grandma (but, holy Applebees!, both my Grandma and my Nena respectively could and can make some kickass cookies, natch).  So, maybe my wish includes, like, and endless supply of them in my pantry.  Or even and endless supply of them in my local CVS.  I'll pay any dollar amount, even after the ginormous price increase these cookies from heaven have undergone in my day.  I live and breathe for these cookies.  (Oh.  In case you remember my non-chewing plight of aught eight, I'll update you:  I'm half a chewer now.  I still can't feel the left side o'me mouth, so my right set of teeth do all the work while the lefties sit over there, tongue numbly slapping against them willynilly, as those left teeth wax poetic about the good ole days when they got some play in my mouth.  And the softness of those incredibly palatable Grandma's Fudgies melt in my orifice so pleasantly they really provide little to no choking risk.  There ya go.  Consider yourself caught up on my oral history.)

4)  I wish a certain delicious news anchor stud about whom I am legally not permitted to speak but whose name may or may not rhyme with Molf Schlitzer was not so damn well versed in the legal intricacies of the restraining order.

5)  I wish the following commercial still graced my television and graced it hardcore.  Quite simply, it is the single-greatest advertisement that has ever aired in the history of the world.  I love it.  I'd court it for an extended period of time then hardcore romance it then marry it in a beautiful but subtle beachside ceremony attended by just our closest friends and family then create six gorgeous kids who never pushed chairs on top of their brothers with it if only I could.  I guess I can't, though.  But, I wish it still aired regularly on my tv:

6)  I wish people would stop being so damn prejudiced.  I have no patience for people who are all judgey judgey stereotypey assholey my blah is better than your blah.  Everywhere you turn there is so much racismsexismhomophobicelitismclassismsblowitoutyourassism.  I wish the world didn't contain ridiculous prejudices and stereotypes and assholes that hate blah because they think they're the blah. Anyway, I'm not completely naive enough to believe that if I wished it would all go away the world wouldn't just implode, the end.  So, I'm not gonna use a wish to wish all prejudice away since I don't want to be responsible for ending the world.  But, I am going to ask to eliminate one completely and totally ridiculous prejudice:  Red Lobster snottism.  It's such total crap.  Red Lobster is freaking awesome.  Find me one a-hole, one papface with the ability to ingest food who does not freaking love a Red Lobster cheddar biscuit and love it hard.  And you know what?  The lovely waitstaff at Red Lobster give you a whole friggin complimentary basket of 'em - along with a smile.  Dude?  It's Crabfest right now.  Garlic crab and shrimp pasta?  Obviously.  I'll take mine with a Lobsterita, please.  Like you wouldn't.  Right.  So, you know what?  Stop being an asshole and pretending Red Lobster isn't amazing.  I wish your ignorant stuck up Red Lobster prejudice would disappear.

7)  I wish I could remember a little more about that one night in 1998 with Philip Michael Thomas.
8)  I wish someone could tell me what the hell happened to the McDonald's gang.  Are they in McDonald's heaven?  Was there some mass cult suicide that I was never informed of in order to spare my feelings and keep my childhood memories pure as the most boring American Idol in the history of A.I. -  Jordan Look at Me I'm a Virgin La La La Sparks?  What in God's name happened to the McDonaldland playland where Ronald sat comfortably greeting you from his bench with a glimmer in his eye and a rubbery red smile?  What the hell happened to the  Mayor McCheese Roundabout and the Fry Guys Bouncers and the Chief Big Mac Climber, where kids like me sat on a cheeseburger seat, devoured a McNuggets happy meal, fries and a coke, and then freaking played?  And, my God - what I wouldn't give to attend just one more birthday party at McDonalds.  My friends, what happened to Birdie the Early Bird and Grimace and the Fry Guys and the Mayor of all things pure and all our other best friends from the Son of Donald?  I wish I knew.  I wish I knew.

9) I wish someone in my family remembered to change the water filter in my refrigerator even one time in the last six years.

10)  I wish for infinity more wishes.  You really thought I'd forget, didn't you?  Hardly.

SPTs Get (a LittleTime) Off

Sexy Programmer Thursday ain't here this Thursday, yo.  We're all up in the calendar shoot.  More details to come...

Monday, August 9, 2010

My Gift to You.

There are moments in life when we tend to feel somber:
Your boo's period's late, or you're the unibomber.
Sometimes in our lives we all could use some friends.
Like that time your wife found that new wart on her gens.
Often, life gives us lemons; it drops a grenade-
A herpal grenade you caught from some skanktown named Jade.
But in times of need, you're never alone
I'm here to support you and thrown you a bone.
A cheaply made present is what you will get;
I'm too poor for Photoshop, so it's cheap
But it's Woolery, nonetheless, swathed in dogs' licks
Turn that frown upside down, dude:  this is your fix.
If you know someone out there who is down on his luck
Give him something to believe in: send him Dogs Licking Chuck

Because I love you, I will give you the ultimate gift.  My gift to you: Dogs Lick Chuck.

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Sexy Programmer Thursday: Soooo Big Version 19.0

Happy Sexy Programmer Thursday, Purveyors of Passion.  Thursdays are always orgasmic around here, but today marks an especially sexy occasion.  You see, today is the nineteenth lustacious version of SPT, and you know what 19.0 is in binary translation:  that's right, it's the sexiest number of all - 10011.  To mark the red hot anniversary, I'm going to share the sexiest conversation to which I have ever been privy.  It's a sexy progammer manmeat comparison festivale.  Maybe it's sexist.  I don't care, because it's sexy.  So, eat your heart out, friends, and check out what some Sexy Programmer All Stars are packing.
Holy Paps!  I think that's free software programmer Miguel de Icaza, best known for starting the GNOME and Mono projects.  Hey Miguel de Icaza:  How big is Miguel?

Sooo big.

Really, de Icaza?  Because I, Guido van Rossum, king of Python
(both literally and literally.  huh huh.), have seen your junk.
Dude.  You're this big.

What's that, Miguel?  Can't hear you. 

Come on,van Rossum, man.  I'm like this.  They call me the Mexican Johnny Cash based upon my habit of simultaneously wearing black sweaters with equally black slacks, and also because I have a gigantic phallus as I understand Johnny Cash also possessed.

What?  Still unable to hear ya, little buddy.  Oh, hey.  There's Bill Atkinson!  He was part of the Apple Macintosh development team and also was the creator of the groundbreaking Mac Paint application, among others, so he knows a thing or two about judging programming junk size.  Didn't he see you in the locker room that one time? Hey, Atkinson?  How big is de Icaza's junk over here?

Miguel's junk, Guido?  About like this.

You guys are so full of crap. I'm so peeved off right now I could take off my black sweater.    
Yeah.  I'm losing the black sweater.

That's so much better.  But, my rod is seriously like this. Oh, good to see you, inventor of the Logo programming language Seymour Papert.  How's things?

Get a load of you, de Icaza.  You say your junk is like this?  A ha ha.  Aaaaah ha ha.  Hahahahahahaha!  Hey, Brendan Eich, creator of JavaScript, Miguel de Icaza thinks his member is like this!

Really, buddy?  I think it's more like this.  Hahahaha.  Hahahahaha.  God.  You crack me up, de Icaza.  Yeah.  You're legendary.  Isn't he legendary, pioneer of virtual reality, Jaron Lanier?

I hear it's more like this!

No, wait.  I'm remembering wrong.  It was more like this.

Ha ha ha!  Ha ha.  Ahahahaha!  Good one, Lanier!

And while we're at it, I'm hung like an IBM System/370 Model 145.  Hahaha.  Ahahahaha.  Hahahahahahaha!  
Whatever, guys.  I'm out of here.

Aaaaand, so are we.  Happy Sexy Programmer Thursday Version 10011.  You deserve it. 

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

The Humdrum Phenomenon of a Kevin: A Study in Mediocrity

Do you sometimes think that day in and day out, you are just slogging through the motions, absently wiping shredded wheat off your chin while staring at your computer in a daze, effortlessly waiting to be spoon fed your entertainment by the happenings on your screen?  Yeah.  I sometimes think you are, too.

Well, pal, today, instead of presenting a soliloquy about the infinite wisdom that can be found staring into Sherri Shepherd's heaving bosom or engaging in yet another debate regarding whether Swiss Cake Roll theft constitutes attempted manslaughter, I think that you should partake in some serious sociological analysis.  Today, you will be ruminating upon a fascinating global circumstance.   Today, we shall analyze the world's silent understanding that is The Blah of Kevin.

It's been an unspoken epidemic.  Until now.  Hey, friend:  having a kid?  Congratulations.  That's really swell.  Hey, amigo:  wanna make sure your spawn thrives in a life of substantial blandness and a case of general non-offensive averageness?  Okay, great.  Name him Kevin.  It's true, yo.  Kevins could not be any more blase, any more just plain fine if they tried.   Let's go to the (proverbial) tape:

Hi.  I'm Kevin Jonas, the middle member of the Jonas Trifecta.  I'm not bothering you, am I?  Good.  You probably couldn't have picked me out of a lineup, am I right?  I look like every other guy that was in your Intro to Econ class.  I'm two parts uninteresting appearance, three spoonfuls of forgettable singing voice, and a dash of non-ironic virginity until my unnoticed marriage to a pleasant looking girl.  Do you like my plaid shirt? 
It's me, Kevin Arnold from the Wonder Years. I sure am affable, aren't I?  
 Kevin Bacon here.  I've had full frontal in one hundred sixteen and a half films.  Do you remember what my dong looks like?  Yeah.  Me neither.  I'm sure it's fine.
I'm medium amounts of funny in a nice, tall, lackluster package known as Kevin Nealon.  Thanks for tuning into to my annual funniest commercials of the year special last year until your wife changed the channel to Bravo.  That was great.  Hey.  Have a good afternoon.
I'm Kevin Something.  Remember when I was on American Idol?  I didn't think so.
I'm Kevin Nash, one of the least interesting characters to come out of wrestling since Jake the Snake Roberts.  What's new with me?  Hmmm.  I got a staph infection in 1999.  I don't know.  I've been thinking about taking a cruise in a few months. 

You see what I mean.  What's that?  Why are nine of you shouting, like, "What about Kevin Garnett?" and, "What the crap, you rectal fissure; K-Fed is the bomb, and you suck!"  Look.  The Kevin thing is a rule.  Do rules sometimes have exceptions?  Yeah.  Sometimes they do.  Sometimes your skanky little sister was allowed to stay out  past curfew while her boyfriend Kurt felt her up in the back of his RX-7 while you were left with the crummy Gilbert Gottfried version of USA Up All Night followed by an hour of squintvision.  That's life.

Anyways, all I'm saying is, it's the fair to middling Kevins of the world that keep life just fine for all of us.  So next time you see a Kevin, why don't you thank him with a medium-grasped handshake and a pat on the back?  He'll probably be pleasantly pleased without being overly excited that you did.