Fabulous!
Today is Designer Guys day on the Discovery Home Channel. I’d write something witty and self depreciating here about my unhealthy infatuation with this show, but I’m too busy taking notes to find the time to beat my emerging feminine/homosexual side back into submission. Have I mentioned that I’m thinking of painting the bedroom ‘lavender star’ and the kitchen ‘spring melon’?
I think I need an intervention.
I’m feeling pretty good right now.
HoBiscuit and I closed on our very first apartment yesterday and we couldn’t be happier. I mean, we’ve sold off all of our blood, replacing it with Fluffer-Nutter in order to make the final down payment, but still we think it was worth it. Especially around snack time when we use small knives to cut ourselves and bleed onto toast and crackers.
Mmmm, love that Fluffer-Nutter goodness…
Now that we have our very own place to live however, we’ve found that it just doesn’t look or feel exactly the way we KNOW it could look and feel with a little remodeling. Especially the kitchen, which is soooo small that we won’t both be able to work in it at the same time without one of us crawling into the oven to let the other pass by.
Just guess who’ll be getting into the oven.
Anywaste, we’ve decided that the best thing to do is remodel the kitchen and leave the rest of the place alone for now. Mostly because after checking our nonexistent budget and exploring other methods of raising cash we’ve come to realize that selling off body parts no longer brings the premiums they once did, which means we can’t afford to do anything but the kitchen until the market price of human spleens goes back up.
Damn you ebay.
All of which brings us back to yesterday’s question. Everyone assumed I was asking if it was better for a PERSON to look good or to feel good, when I was really wondering if it was better for a PLACE to look good or to feel good. See? I can be clever and enigmatic with the best of them. Face it, I’m smarter than any of you and you’re all feeling inferior to my obviously greater intelligence! I’m a genius living amongst cavemen! I’m like a virtuoso stuck in a polka band, an Einstein forced to ride the short bus, or a Picasso made to paint Pokemon cards!
…
Why are you looking at me like that?
*smack!*
Ow!
See?! This is exactly why I don’t talk at parties.
Look out California, here we come!
For the first time since we’ve been married, HoBiscuit and I are traveling together on what some people would call a ‘vacation’, but what we call a ‘Destination Of Convenience’, or DOC. DOC means that we’re going to California for a wedding and tacking on a getaway week for ourselves because we really need to take a breather from all the work we’ve been doing. Now don’t be sad, we’re not going away forever and I promise to tell you all about our trip when we get back. Come on now, there’s no need to cry. Turn that frown upside down…
Oh stop it! I’ll be back on June 7th, you big crybaby.
Anywaste, we’ll be going all over northern California, from San Francisco to the Oregon border to Yosemite to Monterey, so even though I’ll try to update this site with stories of our travels while we’re there, if I were you I wouldn’t be holding my breath. During our stay out west, we’ll also work in a day to meet and greet two of my favoritest Bloggers ever, despite the fact that the Governator has declared our meeting to be an act of terrorschism. And if our meeting doesn’t cause an interdimensional rift of cataclysmic proportions, then I guess we’re just not trying hard enough. Jules, JadedJu, Hobiscuit and GeekMan will meet in California this Saturday, and the world will quake beneath our feet.
May god have mercy on us all.
TV is my friend.
I am completely and totally in love with the show Designer Guys. I don’t think it’s simply because I’m in the process of buying an apartment that has me so infatuated with these guys and although I’m sure that’s part of the reason it’s just not the whole story. I mean, if buying an apartment automatically meant that I would like all home decorating shows then I probably wouldn’t still find Richard Lowell so repulsive, and I definitely wouldn’t need couch-restraints to keep me from throwing things at the TV whenever I watch the so-called ‘designers’ on Surprise By Design screw up another person’s home by using materials so cheap that you just know everything’s going to fall apart in a week of real-world use.
A balsa wood coffee table? I mean, honestly… balsa wood?
I think the main reason I like these guys is that they don’t have an arbitrary budget imposed upon them by a clueless producer who wants to show the world that anyone can have a stylish, French country living room for under $1,000. Anyone who’s ever tried to decorate a room in their own home knows that making it look the way you want costs money. Sure, you can cut corners by making your own couch out of spare cardboard boxes, some fabric remnants and a roll of toilet paper, but let’s be honest here. It will never be a nice couch. And no matter how much you may paint, stain or buff that IKEA dresser, it will never, ever look like an antique English bureau.
Even if you do paint flowers on it.
In other news, I woke up this morning with the feeling that something was amiss with my body and after spending the last three hours collecting clues I think I’ve figured out what’s wrong. See, my first clue was my nose; it was trying to escape my face by slowly liquefying itself from the inside out and running down both my face and my throat. Then, my eyes and eyelids began waging an ecological war, with my eyeballs turning into a vast ocean of salt water and my eyelids turning into a desert of itchy, stabbing pain. Now my throat has entered the fray by becoming both dry and coated with mucus forcing me to clear my throat and then cough from the pain. All of this leads me to three possible conclusions.
Have I mentioned lately that I fricking hate allergies?
I feel violated.
This weekend HoBiscuit and I went down to Virginia as moral support, and living/breathing second opinions, for friends who are moving there in a few months due to a job offer. We drove all over Virginia looking at over a dozen apartments in two days trying to help them find the ‘perfect’ place to live in for a year until they decide whether they’ll stay down there or come back to NY.
I, for one, hope they come back sooner.
Anywaste, we were in the parking lot of some apartment complex when my wife, the Lovely HoBiscuit, starts screaming and pointing at me. She’s hopping from foot to foot as if she were doing the pee-pee dance and turning in circles while screaming “Ew! Ew! Ew!” over and over again. Now, I’ve grown used to the reaction HoBiscuit has when the mind altering, GeekMan-isn’t-really-Quasimodo, love-potion-like cocktail of drugs I give her wear off, but something told me this was different.
The fact that she wasn’t pointing at my face gave me my first clue.
Then I noticed the feeling of a little extra weight on my back. And the weight was moving. Now, since I have the quick reflexes of a striking viper and the mental dexterity of a flying walrus, I quickly deduced that I was being attacked by some sort of creature that could sting me to death, like a giant Geek-killing wasp or a flesh-eating woodpecker. So, taking into account my years of training as a Green Beret Bonnet, I did exactly what I had been trained to do under such circumstances.
I panicked.
I started turning in circles while trying to swat the thing on my back and screamed at HoBiscuit, “Get it off! Get it OFF! I’m allergic to stings. Help me or I’ll die! Get it off! Get it off!” All the while HoBiscuit is screaming at me, “Get it off! Get it OFF! Don’t come near me! I’m not touching it! It’s disgusting! Get it off! Get it off!”
As you can imagine, you’ll never see either of us on Survivor.
Finally, after what felt like forever, I realized that it was not some super-sized stinging insect on my back, but a large, slow-witted and harmless cicada. Sighing in relief that I would not be dying this day, I calmly asked HoBiscuit to flick the little thing off me so we could go look at the apartment with our friends.
The look of horror I received was not encouraging.
After calmly explaining to HoBiscuit that cicadas are harmless bugs that would never hurt her, she calmly told me that she didn’t believe my lying ass because it looked dangerous to her and she would rather watch it eat my empty skull than risk touching it. After trying and failing to reach it myself, and after calming her down from hysterical to moderately anxious, she agreed to help me remove the bug as long as she didn’t need to actually touch it to do so. Then, trusting fool that I am, I turned my back to my wife and calmly waited for her to remove the bug. This may help you understand why I wasn’t prepared for her to start dancing from foot to foot while hitting me with her purse while screaming, “Ick, ick, ick!” Now, all you nature people out there shouldn’t worry because the cicada flew away before HoBiscuit was able to calm down enough to properly aim her Handbag Of Doom.
On the other hand, I’ve got three broken ribs.
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Today is my Blog’s anniversary.
Having a web site for as long as I have (three years with this site and seven years altogether) I’ve learned a few things about Blogging that I thought might be nice to share with those of you who are not, like me, massively popular and worshiped as gods. So, without further ado, here’s a list of the Top Ten Things You Can Do To Become A Massively Popular And Universally Loved Web Site Writer.
There. If you do any three of these ten things you will soon be among the Blogging elite, eating caviar on saltines and sipping Champaign in a hot tub with all the other famous A-List Bloggers. Should you do all ten things then I dare say you might become a Blogging god, able to write anything and still garner 50 to 100 comments and earn over $500 a day in ad revenue and PayPal donations from your adoring fans.
Not to mention all the casual sex from your fanboys/fangirls.
One last note on becoming a popular Blogger. The kiss of death for any Blog is the writer’s insistence on trying to be funny. Never, ever attempt to humor your readership for you will fail miserably and very soon you will find yourself celebrating your Blogiversaries all alone without a single visitor to wish you a happy anniversary. Then you will spend an hour coming up with a stupid list of silly things no one will ever find humorous in the vain and ultimately futile attempt to gain even a single visitor to your pathetic and useless site.
Oh god, I’m so lonely…
I shall attempt to be brief.
There I was, doing my best to write something witty and comment worthy on my silly website, when what did I get for my troubles but a mid-afternoon phone call from a frantic client who needed me to fly out to New Orleans right now to save their buttinsky’s. So, after this worthy and exceptionally wealthy client agreed to throw substantially large sums of money at me to appease my monetary compensational needs, I packed an overnight bag, grabbed my computers and headed to the airport. When I landed I was met by a man holding a sign with my name on it, spelled incorrectly, of course, and he drove me to the hotel I would be spending the night in and, once checked in to said hotel, I went in search of my frantic and deep pocketed client.
Yada, yada, yada… I saved the day.
Being groveled to in public has never been my favorite means of receiving payment for services rendered, preferring as I do large sacks of coinage with immense green ‘$’ symbols emblazoned upon them, so whilst my afore-mentioned clients of largess were upon their knees in supplication to my Superman-like day saving skills, I hastily made my escape. I then went through the whole travelogue exercise I related to you above, but in reverse you understand, and have so come home yet again.
And home is now where I seem to be.
Which is all to say, in an abbreviated form, that I was unable to write yesterday not because of my own laziness, which you understand is not in question here for I am truly one of the worlds’ most lackadaisical and slovenly sloth-like lazy people, having once been so lacking in verve and, for lack of a better term, ‘gumption’, that I refused to move out of the way of a speeding automobile because doing so would be far too much like work, which will bring to mind once again that it was not my laziness that caused me to miss a day of writing, but my monetary need to be someplace else.
In other words; I didn’t write because I was busy. So bite me.
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I’m so damn tired.
Some of you may have been wondering where I’ve been these last few weeks. Some of you have even sent me email to congratulate me for finally realizing how unfunny I am and deciding to let the world’s pain end by allowing this pathetic excuse for a vanity website die. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint all of you, but this site isn’t dead yet.
I’m not dead either, although I do feel tired enough to be one of the walking dead.
Why am I damn tired? Maybe because I haven’t slept in, oh… three months, and I’ve barely even seen HoBiscuit since our wedding in January? But other than lack of sleep, money, sweet lovin’ and sanity, I’m just ducky, thankyouverymuch. Now, a lot of you people out there have expressed interest in my married life, some even going so far as to email me to ask, and I’m always happy to tell those people who ask how wonderful married life is and how happy I am to be married to such a beautiful and amazingly perfect woman like HoBiscuit.
And when she leaves the room I tell them the truth.
What’s the truth? The truth is that I don’t know how married life is because I haven’t seen my wife for longer than 72 hours in a row before I’ve had to get back on an airplane to fly to yet another city for yet another job. In fact, we haven’t even had a honeymoon, and I don’t believe we’ll have one until our one year anniversary because of all the work that I’ve been getting. I don’t normally talk about work here, but even though having work is a VERY GOOD THING for a freelancer, it’s still damn tiring to work non-stop for three months without weekends or days off.
Which brings me back to you.
Over the last two months I’ve been trying to update here as often as time allowed, and I thank all of you for bearing with the sporadic updates and horrendously unfunny posts during this time, but I’m happy to say that your suffering is almost at an end. In fact, I should be back to my regular schedule in just a couple of weeks, and to kick off my grand return to comedic normality I think I might have another contest to celebrate. The rules will be supplied at the end of this week and the winner will receive a prize so coveted and wondrous that people usually pay me huge sums of cash-moolah to provide it to them. Huh? No, no, no! Not that you sicko! I told you I don’t do that anymore. Not since the whole ‘green rash’ incident, I don’t.
How much? Hmmm… we’ll talk later. Privately.
Anywaste, what I’m talking about here is a website designed by yours truly. Something truly spunktacular and groovy made just for you. I’ll tell you all about the contest later this week, but for now I need to get ready for my next work related aneurism, which will be inflicted upon me this Saturday by the double whammy of Solonor and The House of Mouse. Yeah that’s right; I’m going back down to Orlando for some Bad Ass.
What?! I’m talking about coffee you freak, not Solonor!
I’ve lost the ability to speak.
My cold has been racing through my system, ravaging first my head with aches and pains, then my sinuses with clogging and dripping and now, finally, by attacking my throat and vocal cords with a paralyzing deluge of phlegm. No matter how many times I clear my throat I can’t seem to dislodge the cloying, silly-putty-like covering of mucus encasing it and it’s driving me crazy. Talking is impossible since no matter how hard I try all that comes out of my mouth are sounds one can only imagine might be made by a boy going through puberty trying to speak while gargling with Drain-o after swallowing an angry porcupine.
It’s also killing me how much HoBiscuit is enjoying my silence.
She keeps asking me questions she knows I want to answer; only to answer them herself in ways she knows will drive me insane. Want an example? Ok, she asks me questions like, “Would it be ok if I spent the money you were saving for the home theater’s new preamp/processor on new shoes for myself?” and then she’ll immediately answer herself in a the lowest, most manly voice she can muster with, “Of course not, Honey! You go buy your shoes because all I want is for you to be happy.” Then she just laughs and laughs and laughs until she cries. Which I guess is a good thing.
Why? Because when I remember that we’re together forever, I start crying too.
Stupid, stupid weather.
In case the title wasn’t enough of a hint, let me tell you all straight out that I’m sick. Apparently, while refusing to towel yourself off after a shower for fear of mind controlling rays from the government satellites in space may allow you to remember all the deep thoughts you concocted while soapy and wet, it will also lead to a runny nose, sudden chills and a tendency to sweat profusely while unable to keep warm. I hate being sick.
Can some kind soul email me some chicken soup? Please?