I'll Be Over in Ten Minutes, Wolf.

Well hello, old friend. I feel like it's been ages. Do you have a second? There's something I need to talk to you about, and I feel like I can come to you with anything. Remember when you were nine, and it would be summer on, say, a Wednesday night, eight o'clock or so, and during your big neighborhood cul-de-sac kickball game (but before you began Ghosts in the Graveyard later in the night), your friend Jimmy would make a really funny joke about Jackie from the end of the street's burgeoning breasts, and he'd still have the Rocket Pop stain on his Big Dogs t-shirt from when the ice cream truck came by five hours earlier, and you'd be scratching at your mosquito bites and tugging at the bandaids on your knees from your Slip-n-Slide wounds from yesterday, and someone would suggest you quit kickball and pickup a game of TV Tag and everyone else would throw something at that kid for such a lame idea, and then that kid would go, "sike! I was just kidding!" and then you'd talk about how freaking awesome The Mental Misadventures of Ed Grimley was last week? Well, those times were pretty much awesome. They were pretty freaking eggsalady.

That's just how I feel this blog is eggsalady felt back in the day. There were days when I couldn't wait to write to Valerie Bertinelli or the Easter Bunny, or discuss why Rachel on Friends always had her brights on in every single scene (seriously, Friends writers - maybe the pay at Central Perk couldn't afford the lass a bra with a little more substantial padding, but I refuse to believe that her lucrative Ralph Lauren career replete with an assistant named Tag couldn't have afforded a little bit of pull in the intimate apparel department). Anyways.

These past few months we've had some really great times. I loved running to you with confessions of my lust for the Marlboro Man and not Crockett (ick) but rather jherilovin Tubbs. You sat with me at the Zaxby's Discriminates Against Nonchewers Sit In of '08 (and made great strides, I believe, paving the way so that one day some kid with a hacked lingual nerve and a dream can be as good a spokesmodel as Lorenzo Lamas ever was on his worst day)!


You know what I love to do? Write you a limerick or three. Haikus? They're for your eyes and only your eyes. Oh, and maybe for ubertrashwad Six from Blossom's eyes. And those of Amy Fisher's cooking fetus. And maybe also for the author of Little Treasury of Snatch. And The Tampon Family Players (now touring with Constantine Maroulis. You go, TPFs!). But mainly for you. Oh, frick. Who am I kidding? It was all for Mr. Sex Machine Wolf Blitzer himself all along. (WB: Call me!)

And, mygod, Sexy Programmer Thursday. Oh, how Sexy Programmer Thursday was like those hot summer nights when all was good with the world and you watched your neighbor's big sister get felt up by the zitty 11th grade saxophone player in the back of his Firebird and then you'd all run and dare Bloody Mary to show up in Jimmy's mom's mirror and then flail out of the bathroom in the middle of your third request. It's almost like all that heat and all that passion of SPTs fulfilled my wildest dreams for this lifetime and my next six. Those Sexy Programming pieces of manmeat were my own personal game of Seven Minutes in Heaven over and over and over again.

What I guess I'm trying to spit out here is that all the enthusiasm, all the vigor, well, I just don't think I can keep it up like I feel like I should. I don't want to give any less of eggsalady than I originally intended, and I don't want to fall back on lame cousin Oliver moving in for an easy plot device. There's no way I'm gonna sit back and be that guy who only writes every other week or so to tell you about the baby I may or may not be having with Jessica Simpson's better nose(jobbe)d sister. I wish I had the time to devote this summer to the fast paced world of the eggsalad, but I just don't have the time I want to give it my all. You deserve more. I've had a lot of fun and eaten a lot of Easy Mac.

But, for now, this blog is eggsalady is going to go on hiatus. It really is me, and not even a little you (well, maybe a little of you, Wolf). But, I think I'll be back around some day. There's still so much we need to talk about. I mean, come on. There's still so many orifices of Tila Tequila we have yet to discover. When Ali Lohan's album FINALLY drops, I'll need you to sing along with.

To whom will I confess my inappropriate dreams about Judge Joe Brown and Judge Mathis coming to blows over the ownership of my affections?

And there are so many people I'm going to miss during this hiatus. I am going to visit some of you often (whereever you may be) - and I'm specifically talking to several of you - and you know who you are, Alice, Bee, Damon, Elastic, Malcolm, Meg and many, many more (really. If I didn't list you, that doesn't mean I don't actually want to become you!). But, FREDDY, my friend, I'm going to miss you most of all. Could everyone please go visit Retail Hell Underground and say hello to one really awesome blog? You won't regret it.

In the meantime, I'm (cliche' inbound. You've been warned) finishing my screenplay and am entertaining offers for a couple nifty little writing gigs in the works. You will see me again, and not in a Richard Hatch way. I thank you for the journey.

always,

"what's a donzer" (What kind of asshole stupid name is THAT!)

Sexy Programmer Thursday: A Very Special Sexy Interactive Episode Version 15.0

Oooh, lalala my samplers of sultralicious. It's sweeps week here at this blog is eggsalady, and you lucky lovelies are the reapers of the bangin benefits. Congratulations, kids. It's a very special edition of our very special favorite weekly feature Sexy Programmer Thursday. This week's shebang is an extraspecial interactive wafflecone full of arousal. Today, ladies and gentlemen, we are going to buckle up and sidle in to play the hottest game sweeping our sweet planet: Mmmhmm.

Strap on your sexy thinking caps. It's time to play Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician? Are you ready? You were born ready!

And, we're off.

I see that our first contestant has built up quite the biceps, hmmm? How does one accomplish such a lookatme, I'm so hot set of 'ceps? Could it be...monstercoding? Maybe some...world leading? I'm thinking...waving a paddle in the air like you just don't care? So, what is it, my friends? Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician?

If you said Politician, you'd be right. That soulful guitar slinger is sexy enough to be a programmer, but he's Maryland's governor Martin O'Malley, instead. I can see how there would be some confusion.

Let's try again, kay?

Oh, yes. Coming at us with a comehither look. Help me out, friends. Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician?

I mean, he's wearing a supersexy badge, forcryingoutloud! Was there ever any question he's a Delicious Deputy of Programming? That 'stache. That stare. Aaah, open source advocate Eric Raymond: I think I love you.

Onward we march.

Oh, hands on hips, my love? You've GQed that ass all over my motherboard. How are we feeling? Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician?

Yeah, I was ready to go programmer, too. But, this pinstriped poseur doesn't have the sexiness chops to be called commander of code. Instead, our friend David Salcberg is an Aussie Ping-Ponging Olympian. The paddle's almost as cool as the program. Almost.

Ready? Okay!

Why, that's a genial smile. What strokes your keyboard, pal? Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician?

I know what you mean. But, no. This hotness isn't supporting any systems, he's supporting Oregon as a studly Congressman, David Wu. Woowoo!

Let's go again.

Oh, how I'd like to brush those bangs flirting with this fine contestant's forehead aside with a sigh and a smile. So - Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician?

That's right. Could it be clearer? This kind of sex appeal could only come from the co-inventor of the RSA algorithm. He coined the term "computer virus", and then he coined the phrase, "My name is Leonard Adleman, and I'm a big piece of coding sex."

Next candidate!

Oh, you hot specimen you. Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician?

I refuse to believe that this sexy slab of beef has never developed some codelove in his day. But, now, Mayor McCheese sits back with the other politicos and rules over the FryGuys in town.

Alrighty. Next.

Well, hello. You seem quite at home in front of that monitor, Herr Hotness! Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician?

Well, that fineness is noneother than Eric Owen, one of the best ping-pongers in the free world. Score!

Next up, grab a bite of this. Mmmm!

Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician?

That pizza sucking seduction is a classic move of part romance, part pure, steamy heat. That brand of heat spells one thing: Programmer. Toru Iwatani invented Pac Man and chomped his way into our hearts. Game on!

Oh, those smoldering eyes. Are they examining some binary bliss, or are they preparing for the Smash? Will the lead others, or pwn others? Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician?

Oh, Very Young Version of Governor Bill Richardson: People must have thought you were a techie all the time, when all the while you only had aspirations to run a country. I guess if you weren't born with the coding gene, being the likely Democratic VP national candidate is almost as good.

Do you have time for a couple more? Sweet. Give this stud a whirl.

A smoldering stare and a collared sweater? Be still my heart. Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician?

While reader after reader plays pocket pool, our man Steve Dainton, plays table tennis. He's the the director for the International Table Tennis Federation’s Asia Pacific Office in Beijing, and he's hot to trot. Aren't we all!

And, last but not least. You get one final stab at our favorite game.

Rosy cheeks? A peeking pony? Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician?

That sexy black tee peeking from the sensible v-neck leisurewear can only spell one thing. This leading member of the open source movement is clearly one of the leading sexies in the land. I have so many buttons Brandon Behlendorf could push. And, how!

Who doesn't love gameday? I sure do, and today's Programmer, Ping-Ponger, or Politician version of Sexy Programmer Thursday was no exception. Thanks for playing with me. I look forward to next time.

Sexy Programmer Thursday: The Return of the Mac(k), Version 14.0

Holy Smack, my friends. We've been away oh so long, but we didn't forget about you, and we've brought you back some smoldering souvenirs to titillate your techie tingles. I hear you've had a mean jones for some programming playa. Well, look no further, because we're back once again to feed your compucravings. That's right, get ready to warm up the old hard drive, because it's time for some codestroking. Yes, sir; Happy Sexy Programmer Thursday, one and all! It's gonna be a hot one!

Today's MacNugget is as juicy as they come. He's one of the original members of the Macintosh Powerhouse Team (and, the sexiest!), and most people call him the creative machine of the bunch. Well, we call him the love machine of the bunch, but that's neither here nor there. Actually, it's both here and there - Schwing! - but we digress. Our tender morsel of moist machismo is responsible for creating the most important creative programs in the history of that sexy beast, the CPU. That's right, I'm talking about QuickDraw, MacPaint and HyperCard, and, of course I'm referring to Beautiful Bill Atkinson.

Bill brings the Sexy, and then Some, and we could talk for days and days (and days) and then two weeks more all about him, but we'd rather just treat ourselves to a visual feast of Bill on a platter. Alas, I guess we should reveal a few SPINETINGLING SIPS of Atkinson lovin, so we can get all good and revved up for the Bill Potion we're about to swallow. I'm gonna keep it brief, though, so we can get straight to the sweetstuff.

1) How's This For Irony? Just when you were imagining the dirtiest of the dirty Billy related deeds, guess who happens to hold the one and only patent for the "pull down menu"? That's right - Adorable Atkinson, himself! Just how many flavors of pulldown can I order from that menu, Mr. A? I'll take all of them, and make it a double!

2) He's Got a Digital Passion. I know - you're passionate about your digits all over Bill. That's not what I said. He has a passion for digital photography, and, in fact, he is one of the most well known, well respected, freaking sexiest digital photographers in the frickin free world. Bill went full on photography pro in 1996, and you can check out some of his nature photos at his hot and sexy site, Bill Atkinson Photography. My mind reels thinking about Bill, the naturally beautiful specimen, photographing other naturally beautiful specimens that surround him. It's like a monster delicious riddle that my libido is trying to solve.

3) Thank You, Wired.com, for Providing Our Infinite Fantasy Fodder. Thank you. Somehow, this Steven Levy guy was granted an immense gift from God and he was allowed to interview our Babe Bill. Well, Steven Levy isn't afraid to gloat about it, either. Have a look at what he said about our creative genius: Bill Atkinson "is an intense communicant. Bill is an eye-contact person, giving you total attention, really wanting to know how you are doing, how you are feeling. He hugs." Oh, Steven Levy. I don't know how much Satan paid to purchase that soul of yours, but you should be personally responsible for sponging up the drool and tears that resulted in your description of Bill's attention. His hugs. My (fantasy) hugs.

And now, back by popular demand: A Gallery of the Sexy. An Anthology of Arousal. A Ministry of MadCodingHotarificProgrammingLove. All for you. Because I love you. Because I care. I give you Wild Bill Atkinson, at his finest: The Atkinson Senior Picture Collection.

The Money Shot. Obviously. There's nothing that says Sexy like a toothy grin, and this grin is the toothiest. Coupled with a faded denim buttondown, that winning equation smells seduction in my book. Hey, Bill? Did you know that your eyes match your shirt exactly? Well, they also happen to match the color of my sheets exactly. Come over and I'll show you.


Oh, Billy Boy! The Classic Cheek Stroke? For realz? Atkinson, what are you doing to me? In this pose, you are far less toothy, but far more well-lit. In this light, I can see three new purple buttons that I hadn't even imagined living on your shirt before. You tease. That's three more buttons that need to be unbuttoned, you scamp! This pose says mature. It says thoughtful. It says that gale force winds aren't soon to knock you off that crushed velvet laden table. Or out of my dreams.

And the piece de' resistance. The ethereal Bill. The unafraid to bust out the cheek smoosh Bill. The freaking light of the heavens shining down on Bill just as they did in the perimeter of my eighth grade prom picture. Different day, same shirt, but this time gray. Still sexy. It's as though you are staring out of the pages of my Senior yearbook into the corners of my soul. I see your sideways grin, you stud. You know what time that Timex of yours says? It says it's time to call me.

Oh, Bodacious Bill Atkinson, you are the Mack Daddy of all Mac Daddies. You are one truly amazingly sexy programmer. Thanks for heating up the return of Sexy Programmer Thursday.

Even Sexy Programmers Deserve Vacations

Oh, m'lords and m'ladies: It makes me feel so tingly inside to see you here. I regret to inform you that Sexy Programmer Thursday is sipping daquiris and tanning its special coding regions this week, but next week all sultry tanlines will be revealed to you and things will be hotter than ever. Why don't you lust after this for a week or so in the meantime?

See you tomorrow, mefriends.

p.s. - I've never been one to point out packages (HA!), but get a load of Wild Bill's package. I know I'd like to! YOWZA!

I wonder if Nicole Ritchie has caught wind of this brilliance.

I'm not trying to brag, but I don't brag very often. I think, though, that I may have just created the world's most flawless diet, and, as such, I think I deserve a little Bragtown block party all up in here. If I were you, I'd probably assume that I am obsessed with food seeing as how I talk about it all the fracking time. But, you know that old adage about assuming, don't you? Don't ever assume, because you'll end up with a pantsload of gonorrhea.

Anyway, no, I'm not obsessed with food, but I do like it a lot. No, I'm not fat, but I do think I should probably stop running the IV drip of cheese dip through my veins or I'm going to end up gaining a couple of pounds. Anyway, tonight I just happened to stumble upon some information that I think might be the new, way less lame version of the South Beach Diet for the Summer of '08. Three words: Pixy motherfreaking Stix.

You know them. You love them. Our Stix of love and desire, sweet and pleasurable and able to not be chewed by the nonchewers of our world, are probably nature's perfect food. Indeed, can you think of a more enjoyable food? I mean, come on! You pour the delectable fruit flavored substance of love directly onto your tongue and the magic happens.

But the real magic, my friends? The magic upon which I stumbled just sixty or so short minutes ago? Just the fact that one singular Stix is a mere 8.5714 calories! Do you realize what this means, ladies and gentlemen? Let's just say you have decided to limit yourself to, hmm, 1275 calories a day (and, I'm no nutritionist or anything, but this number seems kind of low. I don't want to have to stage an intervention or anything here). Anyway (for argument's sake), you're going for 1275: that means that you can eat approximately 149 Pixy Stix in a day! If you are getting the recommended eight hours of sleep a night (I like to follow healthy guidelines), then that means you could eat nine Pixy Stix in each and every one of your waking hours! To me, this is a no-brainer.

All I can do now is sit back, tear open some Stix, and wait for this diet to take the world by storm. Imagine the possibilities. We could do Pixies on celery. We could add Pixies to our vodka. PBand Pix sandwiches, if you please. It's brilliance. Brilliance, I tell you.

Now go enjoy! Make haste!

Feliz cumpleaños, Anderson Cooper!

Yep, A-Coop turns the big four one today. If I were allowed anywhere near CNN Studios (still playing hard to get are we, Wolf Blitzer? Touche'.), then I'd hand deliver a heaping slice of red velvet cake to the birthday boy, and I'd buy him a Coke. Instead, I'll raise my glass to the Silver Fox during 360 tonight and fondly remember A-Dog's days hosting The Mole. Aaah, weren't we all both younger and purer back in those simpler times!

I also came across the following photo tonight, and I thought you might like to see it. This lady has some pretty gangsta Anderson Cooper ink, don't you think? He's perched right atop her cherry (wishful thinking, indeed!) and is apparently being fondled by her butterfly. That's what I call A New Tattitude!

So a Happy Birthday to you, Anderson Cooper, you big hunk! And here's to many, many more....

Do I need millions of strangers to tell me I appear intoxicated? Probably.

I like to pretend that I am ahead of the curve on all the flyest shiznittles that the hepsters are doing these days, but, let's face it: who am I kidding? I just got an iPod. Eight years later. For Mother's Day. While I was wearing a fanny pack. Haha. I wasn't actually wearing the fanny pack. I was loading it with supplies. Also not true, but, being a bit of a trendacular oracle, I will tell you this: Mark my words. All the freshest g's are gonna be sporting the pack again in the very near future, and you'll wish you hadn't tossed yours aside with your wobegone Rick Astley tapes. The Ast is coming back, and so is the assluggage.

Anyway, so tonight I caught wind of the dopest trend to hit the pervitudinous Web of the World since droves of sixteen year old Lolitas with a dream began flashing their lacy purple pushup bras on their sparkly-slash-emo-bedecked-myspace pages while perfecting the perfect amount of kissyfaced angst meets coy comehither glance for their pimply bio labpartners and also all the boys in Cellblock M. It's called Facestat, and it's marketed as "Market research for the individual." What that means is, you go there, and you can upload a picture of yourself for all the gawkers of the world to judge your attractiveness level, your weight, your sexual orientation, your trustworthiness, your level of intoxication, and much, much more. It's intriguing, really, in an ohmygod, am I really looking at this mess kind of way.

Have a looksee at this lady (I like to call her Patty):

Lemme give you a closeup so you can see what the world thinks of Patty, whose picture is on the opening freaking page of this website.

The world has proclaimed that she isn't gay, she's "definitely gay," and, by the way, not to be trusted. Why? Because her big old 40 year old smile and "hate it" haircut scream to us that she is a "serious stockbroker." Er, what?

Need more? Here's more.

Now here's an unfunny middle aged, middle class chunk of a honky who we'd definitely trust with our leftwing conspiracy theories, but who will not be returning home to the boudoir with us for an old romp between the sheets, no sir!

I don't know. I'm feeling a little skeeved by this entire facestat.com phenomenon (by the way - do NOT accidentally type facesat. Oops. Different idea entirely).

Would you do me a really big favor, though, and add your picture up there and, like, eight people who you hate, too, and let me know how it turns out? I just don't know if my balls are big enough right now to find out that a zillion people think I am a skanky yet trustworthy drunk with bad hair. I wanna know how you fare before I do it. I dare you.