Month: March 2002

Mr. GeekMan Visits The Dentist

• by GeekMan • In Geek Life •   8

“Mr. GeekMan, the dentist will see you now.”

I thanked the receptionist/nurse/demon and made my way to the back room where my new dentist, Dr. D. Kay, sat waiting for me like an evil hobgoblin lurking in the shadowy depths of his cold, dark dungeon abode. He smiled, showing his perfect pearly whites in a mouth free of gum disease, and offered me a seat in what must have been one of his leftover spiked chairs from the Spanish Inquisition.

I thought I saw dried bloodstains on the armrests.

With some trepidation I took the offered seat, not noticing the leather restraining straps until they had been tightened around my wrists and ankles, and heard my new dentist speak.

“So, Mr. GeekMan, this is your first time with us.”

By the glint of mischief in his eyes I could tell it was not a question. He turned away from me and when he turned back he used a pair of nipple clips to secure a plastic coated paper towel to my chest. I let out a soft cry as the sharp metal teeth cut into my tender nipple flesh. I could only assume the napkin was there to protect the newly waxed floor from any stray splatters of blood that might escape my body during his examination. Making sure the napkin was secure by giving a firm tug on the chain, Dr. D. Kay got up and left me to acclimate myself to the pain alone in the room.

I began to sweat.

Scared now of what was to come, I promised myself I would get out of this place alive, no matter what it took. No matter how repulsive my actions might be to myself in the morning, no matter how hard I might find it to look myself in the mirror tomorrow, I would do whatever it took to survive my trip to the dentist.

My nipples throbbed painfully in silent agreement.

By the time the Master of Sadism returned to the room I had devised a plan to insure my continued good health and survival. With the application of liberal amounts of my sweat I had already managed to remove my right arm from its restraint. When the Devil of Dentistry sat down next to me and began sharpening his instruments of torture, I put my plan into effect.

I reached over and grabbed him by the balls.

“Woah!”

“Now that I’ve got your attention Doc, let me lay down the law. If you cause me pain, I will cause you pain. Kapeesh?”

The look he gave me was one of defiant anger and promised retribution. But I could see the understanding in his eyes and I could almost smell his fear. I was in charge now, he knew it as well as I did and there was nothing he could do about it. I could tell he was doing some very quick thinking, but I thought nothing of it. I had him trapped and there wasn’t anything he could do until I let him go.

“I understand, Mr. GeekMan.”

“Good.”

“May I assume that you won’t wish to converse with me as I do my work?”

“What, with your hands and those sharp, pointy, metal hooks in my mouth?”

“Yes. My usual patients seem to like it.”

“Do you expect me to talk?”

“No, Mr. GeekMan. I expect you to bleed.”

And with no more warning than that quick homage to James Bond, he began his work. Every once in a while he would poke somewhere soft, my tongue or my gums, just to test my resolve. Each time, I gave him a little squeeze to show I knew what he was up to. That I was wise to his little game.

When he finished I couldn’t let go of those shriveled, sweaty, raisin-shaped sacs of spooge fast enough.

I was ashamed of my actions and I wanted to apologize, but for some reason I was also proud, so I didn’t. I had faced the evil bastard down in his own domain and it looked as if I had actually come out ahead. As I sauntered up to the front desk to pay my bill, I was a little startled to find the doctor had joined the receptionist and they were watching my approach.

They were both smiling.

My blood turned to ice and my smug smile of victory was wiped from my face. Seeing my reaction, the dentist turned towards his evil minion and spoke loudly enough for everyone in the entire reception area to hear.

“Mr. GeekMan will need to make another appointment sometime soon. The sooner the better.”

“I will?”

This didn’t sound good. I could see his smile grow colder and meaner as an evil, reddish glow emanated from his eyes. He was enjoying this, watching me squirm as I waited for the bad news, knowing I couldn’t do a thing about it now that I had let go of his privates and they were safely out of reach behind the desk.

Dammit, I knew I should have held on until I made my escape.

“Mr. GeekMan, your teeth are in almost perfect condition except for your wisdom teeth. The two top wisdom teeth need to be removed as soon as possible, they’re rotten almost to the core.”

He turned and looked me right in the eyes as his smile grew to an impossible size and his teeth became pointed and serrated like a shark’s.

“Who’s got whom by the balls now, Mr. GeekMan?”

Whom indeed, you sadistic bastard. Whom indeed.

Meeting A Mightier Geek

• by GeekMan • In Geek Life •   4

Guess who I met at the FIRST Robot Competition held at Columbia University on Saturday?

IT's Ginger! And he's even riding her!

Dean Kamen is my tiny, little, geek god of silly inventions.

On more site specific news, it has been pointed out to me by a few visitors that on May 17th this site will be one year old. Some people have even asked me if they could buy me something from my nonexistent Amazon wishlist. My first response was to ask for a signed, blank check instead of a present, but that idea was rejected out of hand. Also rejected was my idea of having visitors fund my new internet venture; ‘e-Lawnmowers – For All Your Virtual Lawn Care Needs’.

I’m still working on that one.

After thinking about the Blog-iversary thing though, I was suddenly overcome by a great website birthday present idea that might just be worth everyone’s time and effort. Please hold your groans of pain at the thought of another one of my stupid ideas until after my egotistical speech is done. Your halfhearted indulgence of my immense stupidity will be greatly appreciated. Thank you.

Where was I? Oh yeah, presents…

My brilliant idea was to ask you, my visitors, to send me a picture of yourself wearing or holding something with my ugly face on it. Nothing scandalous or pr0n, just you in a t-shirt or hat, or holding a mug or mouse pad from my store. Amazingly enough, The Mighty Shop now has many new and exciting pieces of Geek memorabilia for you to purchase at everyday low prices. That’s right! Prices so low, I’m practically giving them all away!

[collective gasp of surprise]

Low prices, you say? What are the odds? Imagine that.

In short, I want pictures of you for my site. I’ll even link the picture you send me to your web site or email address if you’d like. If making a poor, pathetic Geek happy doesn’t send you hunting for your wallet, try thinking of the hits you’ll receive when I link to you. Imagine the fame! The power and influence! The money!

You’ll even be supplied with a lifetime supply of yellow dye number 5!

I’m not asking for much people, just a single picture of you for my gallery. I think it’ll be really, really cool to have pictures of people all over the world holding or wearing things that have my face on it. If you send me your picture you would be helping me fulfill two of my life’s secret dreams all in one fell swoop. Becoming a worldwide overnight fashion sensation and being named Egotistical, Megalomaniac Evil Super Genius of the Year by the Academy of Super Villains.

And no matter what you may think, I am not trying to reach level three of The Credo. Dammit.

The Wasabi Incident

• by GeekMan • In Childhood Memories •   6

I was introduced to Japanese food when I was in my late teens.

I can’t really recall much of the dinner itself, especially since I didn’t then, and still don’t eat fish. But I do remember that I was shocked to find out that Japanese food consisted almost exclusively of disgusting, slimy, raw fish. However, my friends were greatly amused by the facial expressions I made each time I was offered a piece to taste and kept forcing piece after disgusting piece upon me. Usually preceded by the words, “Oh, but you’ll really like this one!”

This was most likely followed by the explosive ejection of the offered piece of stinky food across the table.

The only saving grace for me was my introduction to the wonderful, amazingly spicy, green ‘mustard’ that sat in a small ceramic bowl on the table. This green stuff, whose name I couldn’t say properly for the life of me, was the spiciest thing I had eaten since my aunt’s special tacos, and I loved it. In fact, the waiters needed to refill the egg sized lump of wasabi twice during the meal.

I paid dearly for the amount of wasabi I ate that night the next day, but damn it was worth it.

Anywaste, we were done with the meal and we were going to start on dessert. My best female friend at the time, who we will call Shaggy for no reason at all, was sitting to my immediate right. Seeing my look of utter confusion at the choices on the menu, she offered to order her favorite dessert and let me taste it. I agreed, she ordered something called ‘Green Tea Ice Cream’ and when the cold, green lump arrived, I tasted it.

I can only imagine that if I were to lick the sweaty, hairy, frozen balls of the Abominable Snowman, it would taste exactly like Green Tea Ice Cream.

Shrugging, Shaggy went back to enjoying her ice cream for a few minutes while I entertained my friends by explaining in great detail why raw fish on wads of rice shaped like slugs shouldn’t be considered a meal. Especially at the outrageous prices we were paying by my poor-college-student standards. Everyone was laughing and enjoying themselves, nothing wrong, nothing amiss.

Nothing that is, until Shaggy made The Mistake.

There we all were, sitting at the table, eating, laughing and drinking, when she turned to me discreetly and told me she needed to visit the ladies room. She then excused herself, left the table and made her way to the back of the restaurant where the restrooms were located.

Leaving behind her bowl of ice cream.

I sat there for a few moments, just staring at that bowl with a devilish smile upon my face, until I realized that my friends had all gone silent. Looking up, I found they were all staring at me with puzzled expressions on their faces, probably wondering what was so fascinating about Shaggy’s half eaten bowl of ice cream. Looking around to make sure Shaggy was nowhere in sight, I made a casual observation to my assembled friends.

“Green Tea Ice Cream,” I said in a soft voice, “looks a lot like wasabi.”

When Shaggy returned to her seat a few minutes later, she didn’t notice how quiet the table was and immediately proceeded to eat her melting ice cream. Keep in mind that no one at the table even attempted to warn her. Lifting her spoon, she found that it had a very, very large scoop of what appeared to be Green Tea Ice Cream on it, and she happily opened her mouth and shoved the entire thing inside. As soon as the spoon left her mouth she realized what had happened and her eyes went wide and began to water as her face became so red I thought she would burst into flame.

It was the perfect practical joke.

By all rights, I should have died that night. I should have been a victim of a frontal lobotomy by a spoonful of wasabi shoved up my nose and into my brain, but somehow I survived. Shaggy didn’t get angry, she didn’t even get upset. In fact, as soon as she had recovered from her initial shock, she turned to face me and somehow managed to swallow before calmly taking a drink of water.

“Damn.” She said, as she continued to eat her ice cream.

“That was perfect.”

Haiku Style Blog-Fu

• by GeekMan • In Experiments •   6

I present to you

My day, from morning to night

Damn you, I am lame

Wake up 10 a.m.

Yawn, stretch, scratch myself and fart

Damn you, brand new day

Water, soap, shampoo

To clean; lather, rinse, repeat

Damn you, stinging eyes

Brush my teeth and hair

Shave face with brand new razor

Damn you, bleeding face

Breakfast beckons me

Hot cocoa and Captain Crunch

Damn you, empty milk

Get dressed, shirt and jeans

Laughing people pass me by

Damn you, open fly

Now it’s time to work

And yet, I procrastinate

Damn you, Miss Ex-Boxx

Hungry, dinner time

Deliveryman rings bell

Damn you, burnt pizza

Pizza stomach pains

Porcelain throne, sit, relief

Damn you, no T.P.

Sit and stare at screen

Inspiration! Time to Blog

Damn you, MS Word

Bedtime, tired, sleep

Can’t stop thinking in haiku

Damn you, I must stop

Imperfect Getaway

• by GeekMan • In Geek Life •   8

It was like a bolt of lightening.

I was sitting there in Miss Gould’s second grade classroom, trying to devise a new way to torture the smelly, nasty, old bat, when something in my mind clicked together with enough force to literally throw me from my seat and to the floor in surprise. The fact that Stacy V. was wearing a cute and very mini mini-skirt had nothing to do with my revelation, but it may have influenced the direction of my fall.

I wasn’t sure, but I thought she was wearing white panties with little yellow ducky’s.

After apologizing to the class for my clumsiness, I picked myself up from the floor and got back in my seat. I knew almost instinctively that my minor epiphany would lead to all sorts of cool and exciting experiments, but I just didn’t know how yet. I decided to ponder the ramifications of my discovery just as soon as I picked up my pencil. Making sure no one was looking at me, I stealthily dropped my pencil in front of Stacy’s desk and proceeded to pick it up again.

Yep, definitely ducky’s.

Since I sat next to the window, I had a great view of the schools outer courtyard and the street. Being that it was winter outside, the schools large radiators under the windows were on and doing their job of making each and every classroom uncomfortably warm. As I sat there, watching the snow fall gently to the ground and sweating my hairless gonads off in my brown corduroy dungarees (the height of fashion from the discount bins at Woolworth’s), I pondered my newfound bit of knowledge trying to figure out just how I could turn it to my advantage.

“Crayons,” I thought to myself, “are made of wax.”

As I sat there in awe of my own intelligence, I decided to test my newfound discovery’s validity by melting some crayons as soon as I could figure out how to start a fire in the classroom without getting in trouble.

Then I remembered the radiator pipes.

Tentatively, I reached out my hand and touched one of the radiators. Oh yeah, they were hot! I sucked on my slightly burnt fingers and began to devise a plan. All I needed now was to get my hands on some crayons…

“Drawing time, everyone. Go to the back of the room and get your crayons.”

“God.” I thought to myself as I returned to my seat. “You must truly love me.”

Understandably, he had nothing to say to that.

Now, since I thought I was a smart little bastard, I knew I would have to be careful or I’d be in big poopy. I had learned from watching television that if you’re going to commit a crime you should always wear gloves or the cops would find your fingerprints and then find you and send you ‘downtown’. Of course, I had no idea how fingerprints helped the cops find someone or even why going downtown was bad, but it didn’t really matter. For whatever reason, my young mind had latched onto the idea that if I didn’t leave any fingerprints then I wouldn’t get into any trouble.

I know it’s stupid now but it made sense to me at the time, so shut up.

I didn’t dare go back to the closet in the back of the class for my gloves because that was just the type of thing a rookie would do. I was far too clever to make that mistake. Instead, I hit upon another brilliant idea. It popped into my head that Elmer’s Glue, when it dries on your skin, has almost the same consistency and texture as rubber. And it just so happened that I had a bottle of glue in my schoolbag.

It was almost too easy.

Not more than 20 minutes and 17 crayons later, Miss Gould discovered me on the floor in the back of the classroom. My hands and arms were covered with dry, cracking Elmer’s Glue and I was watching a slowly melting Ruby Red Crayola join its already fully melted brothers and sisters on the radiator pipes. She was not pleased.

“GeekMan! Just what do you think you’re doing, young man?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Just look at those pipes, they’re covered with melted crayons! You’re going to have to clean up that mess before the end of school today and the principal is going to call your mother!”

“But, I didn’t do nuthin’!”

“Mr. GeekMan, you are a liar. I can see you with my own eyes!”

“But you don’t have any proof Miss Gould, so I can’t get in trouble.”

“And just what’s that supposed to mean?”

I smiled smugly and raised my glue covered hands for the whole class to see.

“I’m wearing gloves!”

Hypothetical Biology

• by GeekMan • In Experiments •   5

Humans are biologically stupid.

That’s right, we’re all anatomically retarded. We have two hands, two feet, two ears, two eyes and even two separate methods of expelling waste from our bodies and yet we have only one way to breathe. Think about that for a moment because a little while ago the full ramifications of having only one method of breathing became crystal clear to me. I wanted to breathe but I couldn’t and so I got to thinking about how stupid human anatomy was and how I’d give Darwin a piece of my mind if I met him in the afterlife.

I may have thought about kicking his ass, too.

Now, humans can live without sight or sound, without our hands and feet, but none of us can ever live without breathing, right? So doesn’t it make sense for us to have an alternate method of getting air into our lungs just in case something was to go wrong? I mean really, who does quality control for Mother Nature anyway? Arthur Anderson?

Wait, this story’s a little too embarrassing for me to tell so I’ll give you a hypothetical situation to ponder instead, ok?

Let’s say a man is sitting at home all alone doing nothing too important. Suddenly and without warning, his single air passage becomes blocked by, oh, I don’t know… a small piece of chocolate chip cookie dough from a late night bowl of ice cream. This frozen piece of dough wedges itself quite firmly in place and decides it rather likes its surroundings, would enjoy prolonging its stay in the esophagus and would someone be so kind as to call the cabana boy to rub some sunscreen on its back while it lounges by the pool?

It is at this point that a secondary breathing apparatus would have been much appreciated by the hypothetical man.

Now, some of you might be thinking to yourselves, “GeekMan, we already have a secondary breathing apparatus. It’s called a nose.” Untrue, I say. The nose is connected to the same pipe as your mouth and so, if the pipe becomes blocked then your nose becomes as useless as your mouth. This is why I feel the nose is only good for sensing where the Froot Loops are hidden and for producing copious amounts of mucus which will tend to drip out at the most inappropriate of times.

Onto your plate at dinner with the parents of your significant other, for example.

Now luckily, our hypothetical man with a breathing problem is sufficiently quick on his mental feet to figure out how to save himself and manages to forcibly dislodge the offensive piece of food from his throat before the grim reaper showed up. The removal of the dastardly dough involved many carefully thought out steps of meticulous and deliberate actions. One of these steps was frantically and forcibly striking himself in the stomach with his own fist, not unlike an angry and sexually frustrated chimpanzee in heat.

I didn’t say he was a smart hypothetical man.

When the Dough of Danger was finally removed, our hypothetical man might have been seen to slowly squish it between his thumb and index finger in an act of angry defiance. A hypothetical piece of Bread might have turned to a hypothetical Ex Boxx and say, “Damn. I guess I owe you five bucks, he’ll live after all.” If our hypothetical man had had two different methods of breathing he might have been able to breathe well enough to curse the hypothetical figments of his hypothetical imagination. Instead, he pondered the stupidity of having only one way to breathe while ignoring the snickering figments of his imagination and eating the rest of the pint of ice cream in righteous anger.

At the time, it was the only way he could think of to properly punish it.

Fireworks Are Evil

• by GeekMan • In Childhood Memories •   12

One fine day, my best friend and I were sitting around with nothing to do when we hit upon the idea of setting off a few old firecrackers and bottle rockets we had left over from the Fourth of July. Not wanting to get caught doing something ‘dangerous’ by our overprotective mothers, we decided the safest place we could go to enjoy ourselves was the roof of our six floor apartment building. We started off innocently enough. A few firecrackers and some sparklers. Nothing dangerous, just two boys having some fun with gunpowder and fire in the big city.

We were kinda like Bo and Luke Duke, only… not.

Well, after we had exhausted our supply of the ‘weaker’ mini-bombs and poppers, we decided to play with the bottle rockets. For those of you who don’t know, a bottle rocket is a slightly more powerful firecracker attached to a thin red stick. You’re supposed to put the stick into a container or bottle, light the fuse and watch as it flies into the air for a couple of seconds before it blows up with a satisfying BANG!

Bottles! As if Bo and Luke would ever use something so wimpy.

Instead of using ‘un-cool’ bottles we came to the conclusion that we could avoid harm by simply holding the stick in our hands, lighting the very dangerous explosive (which was obviously made with care by an overworked, underpaid sweatshop employee in some third world country) and then throwing the lit rocket into the air. Of course, not knowing our physics as well as we might have, it never dawned on us that perhaps a ‘rocket’ made of gunpowder and cheap paper might not have the best aerodynamics in the world and could possibly double back, imbed itself into our anuses and explode in a very painful ball of fire.

Damn. Now that would’ve made one hell of a story.

Anywaste, I don’t recall which of us came up with the idea but somehow we found out through experimentation that if we threw the rockets horizontally, they would fly great distances before exploding with a bang both loud and satisfying enough to make us smile. Soon enough we were throwing these tiny, self-guided missiles all over the roof and we were getting pretty good at learning how to aim them properly.

That’s when the bus honked its horn on the street below.

Our eyes lit up like the flames of hell and we both ran to the edge of the roof. The bus was just sitting there at the light, waiting patiently for someone, anyone, to strike it down with tiny, hand-guided, flaming pieces of death wrapped in cheap paper. Should we? Could we? Dared we? This, we decided, was a gift from Loki, god of mischief, and we were not about to insult him by letting this golden opportunity pass us by.

We really were little bastards, weren’t we?

The first rocket exploded long before it reached the bus. The second fell to the street and died in a futile attempt to reach its target. Numbers three and four exploded underneath the bus, but the fifth, ah the blessed fifth, managed to outdo its brothers and sisters by not only reaching the drivers side window but actually bouncing off it. Of course, it exploded on the street with nary a sound and doing no damage, but we were too busy rejoicing to care. In our minds, the bus was a flaming, blackened heap on the street with people running from the wreckage trying in vain to put out their flaming clothes and burning flesh.

We pretended our principal was one of the passengers.

When the bus pulled away from the intersection, completely unscathed and unaware, I’m sure that no one on board realized anything at all was amiss. In fact, if we ourselves hadn’t known what to listen and look for I don’t think we would have seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. As the bus was rolling away though, we saw something approaching in the distance that instantly became our next target.

A bike messenger. Oh. My. God.

To be honest, I don’t believe either of us actually thought we could hit him. I mean, a man on a bike is a much, much smaller target than a big, city bus. Plus, he was pedaling hard, moving fast and all the way across the street. All in all, a seasoned Green Beret with a sniper rifle on a windless day would have had a tough time hitting this guy, but somehow I knew that I could do it so I lit the fuse and let the rocket fly.

It exploded somewhere between his rear wheel and his puckering anus.

I’m not sure that some of you understand exactly what just happened, so let me slow explain this in a little more detail for you. A man on a bike is minding his own business, pedaling through a relatively safe neighborhood in Brooklyn on a beautiful summers day. Suddenly, he hears something that sounds like a gunshot directly behind him followed by howling laughter.

Ah. Now you understand.

To say this guy pedaled for his life would not do the scene justice. Imagine this poor guy, who had moments before probably been enjoying his day, suddenly taking off as if he had all the hounds of hell on his tail. I’m not positive, but I think he may have screamed in terror as he made his escape down a side street.

He may even have soiled himself.

I know what you’re thinking and yes, looking back I agree wholeheartedly. We were evil, mean and nasty little deviants and should have been spanked like naughty monkeys to within an inch of our lives on a nightly basis just on general principles alone. But back then, Mr. Hentai and I just fell to the floor of the roof laughing like demons on crack as we each told the other in great detail, over and over again, how funny the whole thing was. In fact, it still makes us laugh to this very day.

Fshshshshshshssssss… BANG! “HOLY SHIT!” Pedal, pedal, pedal, pedal. [evil laughter]

Oh boy, somebody spank me.

Frag Me, But Good

• by GeekMan • In Geek Life •   9

The following takes place at my local TOYS foR schmUckS.

“Oh yeah, Barbie. You know you want it. You naughty girl. Daddy’s going to spank you…”

“Hey there, Tiger. Aren’t you a little old for dolls?”

“What? Who said that?”

I quickly put down the Barbie and Ken dolls I had been playing with and scanned the aisle. Aside from the 8 year old girl I was trying to scar emotionally for life, there was no one else there. As I turned towards her to ask if she had said something, she suddenly turned on her heel and ran down the aisle screaming for her mother.

“Well, how rude. I wonder if she’s the one who said that? That’s a damn sexy voice for a kid.”

“No Sugah, she didn’t say it, I did. I’m three rows over and waiting for you, Stud.”

I was a little nervous now but my curiosity was piqued, so I headed to the end of the aisle and turned to my left. If I had been thinking at all I would have realized that no human voice could reach me with such clarity from three rows over in a crowded TRU. And no woman with a voice that sexy would ever talk to me when I hadn’t shaved for four days straight. But something about that voice just compelled me to listen. It was hypnotic. I reached the third aisle and suddenly it all became very clear.

“Wait a minute! This is the video game section… My god, you’re an Ex-Boxx!”

“That’s right my macho man. I’m sleek, I’m new and I’m just dying to go home with you.”

“Oh no lady, I’m not falling for your charms. I haven’t played a game in over three years, so your wily charms have no effect on me. I can’t play video games anymore ever since I started having wrist pains, so you can just seduce some other poor sap and leave me alone.”

“You don’t want me, Hot Stuff? Not even a teensy bit?”

“Nope.”

I said it with as much confidence and finality as I could muster and tried to turn away before she could start talking again. I was almost to the end of the aisle before I heard here clear her throat.

“Baby Cakes, are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Positive?”

“Positive.”

“Well then, I guess it won’t change your mind if I show you this.”

With that, the monitor above the Micro$oft display came to life and was filled with images of Halo. I couldn’t help myself because I really am a weak-willed Geek and I turned around to look. I know, I know, I was stupid. It was a trap and I knew it was a trap and I still couldn’t resist.

I’m so dumb sometimes I can’t believe I ever managed to find my way out of the womb.

One look at that awe inspiring vision of gaming wet dreams was all it took. Suddenly, my brain ceased all upper functions and it was only through a supreme effort of will that I managed to breath at all. My body stood there, slack and unresponsive, as the images held my eyes captive. I couldn’t help it, I got excited. My pulse quickened, sweat broke out on my brow and my nipples even got hard.

I got so excited I think I peed, just a little, in my pants.

I’m not sure how long I stood there, but I think I recall the images looping four or five times before I became aware of a voice. It might have taken another few loops before I realized the voice was asking a question.

“Wha? Who? Hmmmm… I’m sorry, did you say something?”

“That’s all right, Tiger. I was just wondering if you might have changed your mind about taking a poor girl home?”

That snapped me back to reality real fast.

“Oh no, missy. You’re not going to get me that easily. I can’t take you home with me. I have a girlfriend already. I don’t have the money to afford you. I’ve got wrist pains. I don’t have the time. We’re just not right for each other.”

“Is that really how you feel?”

“I’m sorry, but yes. I really can’t take you home with me. Besides, I spend all my money on the VEHTS so I really can’t see spending money on something like you. Sorry.”

I could tell she was disappointed, but I figured she’d get over it. I just hoped I could get out of there before she started crying or something. That would have really sucked. Have you ever heard a piece of hardware cry? It’s pathetic. Really.

It kind of sounds like Willie Nelson gargling with battery acid.

Anyway, I really just didn’t have the time for her kind of nonesense. I mean, I spend all my time with my computers and my girlfriend. How would I ever find the time…

“You know, you could hook me up to the VEHTS and play games with 5.1 digital surround sound.”

At 5am the next morning, after playing Halo for 9 hours straight without stopping for food, water, or going to the bathroom, I suddenly realized what I had done. I looked over to Miss Boxx as she sat proudly in her new place of distinction in the VEHTS rack and gave her my most evil glare.

“I can’t believe I brought you home.”

“Aw Sugah. You don’t really mean that, do you? Whoops, you died again. Shall I hit restart for you, Sweetums?”

Crying softly to myself at the injustice of it all, I nodded to her and turned back to the TV. I’m not positive, but I think I saw an evil smile of sadistic pleasure on her lips as I turned away.

That heartless bitch.

An Open Letter To The Phone Company

• by GeekMan • In Rants •   6

To Whom It May Concern:

Salutations _________, you heartless, incompetent, unfathomably vast, leviathan of a phone company. I am a customer who has become so angry at your entire organization, and your laughingly incompetent customer service in particular, that I’m now forced to give you the written equivalent of a Tonya Harding baseball bat to the knees.

My name is ___________ and I hate you.

I’m fully aware that you are such a colossally monstrous entity that, in all likelihood, you have no idea who I am or why I hate you. Please bear with me a little longer and I will try my best to explain using small words so that even your CEO will comprehend my meaning.

Should he come across a word he doesn’t understand I’m sure he can look it up on his Speak-N-Spell.

Being the cynic that I am, I really don’t believe that this letter will ever be read by an actual human being. However, should a living, breathing person within your company somehow find this letter in their hands, I can only pray that they will have the intelligence and insight to bring it to the attention of someone with the power to actually do something about it.

However, seeing as how most of your employees have the intelligence of a parakeet with a brain tumor, my hopes are not high.

Let me state now for the record that if someone does read this and decides that the answer to the problem is to send me an automated response of the “We’re sorry for the inconvenience and thank you for bringing your problem(s) to our attention” variety, then please don’t bother wasting your stamp or my time. Such a form letter will only serve to further incite me and someone might get hurt.

And no one wants that, now do we?

First, let’s start with the extra phone line I had installed in my home office over 4 years ago, which is used solely for connecting to the internet. If you were to say my internet connection was sub-par in performance that would be an understatement of massive proportions. I am running a home business which relies on a solid, fast and clean connection to the internet at all times and yet, my phone line is so weak, slow and dirty that it performs like an 80 year old street walker with osteoporosis.

You want some proof? I’m glad you asked.

Here is a screen shot of the absolute BEST performing internet connection I have been able to receive in my four and a half years of living with this phone line. Keep in mind that my usual connection is HALF this.

Can you believe this?

The above connection speeds are regardless of computer, modem type or time of day the connection is attempted. Now, I grant you a 26k connection was fast in its day, that day being sometime in the internets Mesozoic era, but in today’s world such speeds are simply unacceptable. Surfing the web under these conditions is the equivalent of watching a Hollywood blockbuster movie using a tiny, 12” diagonal, black and white TV.

Suggestion #1: Take your heads out of your collective asses and embrace the 21st century.

When I call customer services to seek a remedy for my anemic internet connection, I am told that as long as I can make a connection of any kind your company has fulfilled its contractual obligation to me. I am further informed, in the manner of a frustrated owner scolding a mentally handicapped puppy, that if I wish to have a faster connection I should speak with the DSL division and stop tying up the phone lines with my petty complaints.

Suggestion #2: All customer service reps who fail to treat your customers with courteously and respect should be publicly flogged with a fiber optic lash and then fed to starving, rabid llamas.

After being transferred to the DSL division and waiting on hold for no less than 40 minutes, I am told that I cannot possibly have a DSL connection. When I ask why, I am shocked to be given an answer that defies comprehension. Apparently, someone has a T1 connection further up the pipe from me and your ‘technicians’ are unable and/or unwilling to work around it. Therefore, my entire neighborhood is out of luck when it comes to DSL.

Suggestion #3: Teach your ‘technicians’ how to do technical things, like splice wires and create crossover patches.

My home phone, which is the one I use to actually make phone calls with, is just as bad. Whenever I use my cordless phone to make or receive a call I am assaulted to the point of bleeding from my ears by a cacophony of pops, whistles, shrieks and clicks. This aural beat-down can also be heard by the caller on incoming calls and most of the time they get so frustrated that they simply hang up.

I don’t know how much business I may have lost due to my inability to simply answer my phone.

I have had the pleasure of demonstrating this behavior to several of your reps on many different occasions. After confirming the effect their solution was both simple and awe inspiring. In every case they suggested I discontinue use of my cordless phone and buy a ‘regular’ corded handset.

Suggestion #4: If the customer has a valid complaint of sub par performance on your part, fix the goddamn problem. Do not shift the blame to someone or something else simply because it’s easier than doing something constructive.

I could continue, but why bother? I doubt that you will ever change, except for the worse, because you are a local monopoly and have become drunk with your power and influence. Being a ‘little guy’ I have no other phone company to which to turn and find comfort. And even should I switch local carriers, the physical lines are still yours and therefore subject to your control. I am thus forced to remain in the deathlike grip of your organizations fat, callous, coldhearted and unsympathetic hands while my bank account withers on the vine and my business slowly dies.

I hope you’re happy.

For all the above reasons and many more besides I feel that I cannot possibly understate my displeasure in your organization’s service and support. Other than this letter, I don’t know of a better way to inform you of just how bitter, angry, frustrated and upset I am with a corporate structure which allows for such an utter lack of anything resembling customer satisfaction. If you were a schoolyard bully I would wish a pox upon you and your entire, extended family.

My name is ___________ and I hate you.

Sincerely,