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?
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.
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 paint.net.
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.
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!
Andwhile 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.
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?
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.
Are you sitting down? I hope you are sitting down, because you and I are about to make some history, my friend. I've known you for a while, and I've seen that little glimmer in your eye; you're ready for a revolution.
Do you feel something electric in the air today? My God, I know I do. If you're anything like me (Who are we kidding here? You and I are like Funyuns and chocolate sauce - two intertwined lovers who shall never part ways), then you bounced out of bed, delightfully energized, because August 3 just feels completely different. I agree. It is.
Today, if you'll join me, I propose that we, together, glorify quite possibly the most poontastic living legend you and I have seen in all our living, breathing, sweating, panting, crying, itching for indeterminate reasons days. How in the hell anyone has yet to give our magnificent hero his own (unofficial) holiday, I will never, ever know. But they haven't. And we will. Please, friends, won't you join me in creating and celebrating that day that God selflessly granted us the greatest Ocean anyone has ever stared longingly into while casually yet hastily removing each and every layer of our cumbersome undergarments?
Please join with me in proclaiming August 3, 2010 the very first Billy Ocean Day. Why today? Why the hell not? You and I both have volumes of Billy Ocean fan fiction tucked away in our bedside tables. Why in God's name shouldn't we make our hero worship official?
Since we're just kicking off our celebration of a holiday that will obviously live on and on forever and ever until infinity, I'm open to any and all suggestions regarding how we proceed with the festivities. Clearly, you should ask your boss for the day off. Hell, I'd be surprised if he's still sitting his happy behind in front of his old personal computer right now and not in some bar sharing the same dream with his own Caribbean Queen.
I'd love your ideas on how to proceed. Until I hear from you, I'll leave you with a few haikus dedicated to our sweet Ocean on this most hallowed day.
Ocean fantasy
Fondling giant Pick Up Sticks
Now I'll die happy.
Goatee, jean jacket
Turtleneck ribbed for pleasure
Jheri curls of love
Get out of my dreams
Scarlet leisure suit o'sex
Get into my car.
Holy shit, Billy!
A diploma for hotness?
I saw it coming.
Anyway, pals. Happy Freaking Billy Ocean Day '10. Now our love of the Ocean has a place to convene. No more love on the run. No. No more love on the run.
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
5) Soul Train - Nope.
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