3:30 AM.

“Hear ye, Hear ye. This meeting of the Body Parts Known Collectively As GeekMan will now come to order. Mediator Brain presiding.”
“Thank you, Mr. Spine. Before I begin, I’d like to take a moment to thank each and every one of you various body parts for coming to this meeting tonight. I know that…”
“Shut up, you pompous jackhole and get to the point!”
“Anus! That’s no way to talk to the Brain and you know it.”
“Shove it, Spine. I’m very busy working on tomorrows AM load and I don’t have time for these stupid meetings of yours, so Brain better poo or get the hell off the pot before I leave.”

General sounds of agreement from the members of the audience.

“Ahem. Well, since everyone’s in such a hurry, I guess I better get straight to the point. According to our calendar of events, it’s time for GeekMan to experience another ‘harmless’ medical scare. Now, we all know how well the last one went and I’d like to take a moment now to once again publicly congratulate Groin and his team for their wonderful work on the Groin Pull/Not A Hernia project of 2002. Stand up and be recognized!”

Applause as Groin and his team take a bow.

“So, now that we all know what this is about, I’ll open the floor for your ideas. And Sinus, before you and your team even start, I’ll tell you once again that allergies are seasonal and cannot be considered for this project, so just sit down and be quiet.”

Sinus, Nose and Throat sit down grumbling.

“So, who has an idea for a new problem we can inflict upon our hapless host that will annoy him to no end, cause his friends and loved ones to laugh at his pain and still be medically benign?”
“How about an ulcer?”
“Stomach, that’s a great idea but I’m afraid GeekMan’s wise to that one already. He’s got a fully stocked medicine cabinet and he’d probably just blame HoBiscuit’s cooking and take a Tums or something. No. I’m sorry Stomach but an ulcer just won’t do. Anyone else?”
“Hemorrhoids?”
“Anus, we’ve discussed this already. You’ll get your precious hemorrhoids in about 15 years so quit bringing them up at every meeting, ok?”
“But they’re so frickin cute…”
“We’ll talk about it later, Anus. Now, anyone else have an idea?”

Silence.

“Come on, people! Someone’s got to have an idea. Anyone?”

A hand goes up in the back of the room.

“Yes? Who is that back there?”
“Uhm… it’s me, Mr. Brain, sir. Left Foot.”
“Well, speak up Lefty. Don’t be shy. Tell us your idea.”
“Well, I was thinking, your Brainship, perhaps we could give him some inexplicable foot pain? You know? Maybe a shooting pain from his left big toe to his knee that would make it nearly impossible to walk without limping? Or something like that?”

Silence.

“I’m sorry, sir. I know it was dumb, but I just wanted to help and… Well, I’ll just sit down now and we can forget the whole thing, ok?”
“Don’t sit down just yet, Mr.. What did you say your name was again?”
“Uh, Left Foot, sir.”
“Well, Lefty. Let me be the first to congratulate you! Your idea is genius. Simply genius!”
“You really think so, sir?”
“Of course I do! It’s perfect! A pain that will nearly incapacitate GeekMan for a whole day, that’s not traceable to any one source, that’ll have his friends laughing at him as he limps around town AND isn’t serious enough to warrant a trip to the doctor. My god Lefty, you’ve hit a gold mine!”
“Oh, thank you, Your Brainship, sir! Thank you!”
“Don’t thank me, Lefty. We should be thanking you!”

Applause from everyone in attendance except Anus, who is dreaming of building a harem of hemorrhoids for his sexual pleasure.

“Lefty, I want you to get started on this right away. How long will it take for you to implement The Great Toe Cramp of 2002?”
“Uh, well… if I get started right away, and you give me the paperwork I’ll need to get the muscles and stuff to work overtime, then I can be ready in about three hours.”
“The paperwork will be on your desk in half an hour. Spine, see to it.”
“Then I better get to work, sir. If you’ll excuse me…”
“You’re excused, Lefty. Damn, but this is going to be great. OK everybody, this meeting is adjourned. Anus, wipe that stupid smile off your face and step into my office.”

7:00 AM.

GeekMan is rudely awakened from a deep sleep when an invisible man wielding a rusty, spike-covered baseball bat takes a few swings at his left foot. HoBiscuit threatens to kill GeekMan if he doesn’t stop whining like a baby and let her go back to sleep. GeekMan spends the rest of the day sobbing as his throbbing foot makes even sitting down painful. Operation Great Toe Cramp of 2002 is considered a resounding success by all the members of the Body Parts Known Collectively As GeekMan.

As a reward for his great work, Lefty was promoted to VP of Toe Management and is currently lead developer on the Ingrown Toenail Of Doom Project of 2003.

HoBiscuit was excited.

When she came home from work last night and saw the pile of mail on the kitchen table, her eyes were immediately drawn to the top envelope. The one with the AC Nielsen logo and the words, ‘A special invitation to join our panel.’ on it. She squealed like a spider monkey in heat and lifted up the envelope as if contained a winning lottery ticket for [begin Dr. Evil] 100 billion dollars [/end Dr. Evil].

“Oh. My. God. We’re going to be a Nielsen family!”

I was uncertain what that meant at first, not being a big fan of TV, but I knew better than to argue with her when she was so obviously excited. I have been well trained. So, I proceeded to jump up and down in excitement with her, as is my contractual obligation per items 103.92b and 427.45c of the relationship contract I was forced to sign when we first began dating.

In blood. From my own finger. Three. Freaking. Copies.

Anywaste, she began babbling about how great it would be because our TV viewing habits would influence future programming for all of America. Then she said something about something being cool, or something. And blah, blah, blah research. Blah, blah, blah exciting. Gibberish, foreign tongues, Satan is my master, llamas got my teeth, blah, blah, blah.

That’s about when I stopped listening.

Instead, I began wondering how I might be able to hack the Nielsen box so that it thinks all I’m watching is reruns of Family Guy and Married… With Children. Then I wondered if it would affect the VEHTS, because if it did then I wouldn’t let that devil’s gadget into my home. No way was I going to lose the sound or picture quality of my system just so these faceless, nameless researchers could watch me channel surf my Pay-Per-View porn. I’d rather die first then give up the perfect clarity of watching Jenna Jameson’s bouncing breasts on my beautiful, professionally calibrated, extra-large, super-flat HDTV.

In my minds eye I could still see them bouncing. Beautiful. Simply beautiful.

Looking over to HoBiscuit I realized her mouth was moving. Quickly flicking the mental switch that allowed my ears to pick up her particular vocal frequencies again, I listened to her angry words.

“This isn’t for the TV! It’s for shopping!”

Seeing my furrowed brow and blank stare, HoBiscuit handed me the color pamphlet, put her hands on her hips and fumed at the injustices of the world. As I read the pamphlet, she started talking about invasions of privacy, marketing bastards, stupid surveys and how unfair it was that she wasn’t going to influence the TV viewing habits of her fellow Americans by watching Shipmates, American Idol and SpongeBob SquarePants 24 hours a day.

She’s so damn cute, isn’t she?

Well, it turns out that we’re not going to be a Nielsen family. What we were invited to join was the Homescan Consumer Panel, which basically means using a handheld scanner to scan in the UPC barcodes of every freaking thing we ever buy. Ever. From food to electronics to household items, everything would be scanned in and sent to the ‘good’ people of AC Nielsen so they could then sell that information to large corporations in the name of ‘Market Research’.

But I have a plan.

See, I think we might sign up for the program but, when we get the scanner, instead of scanning our real purchases we’d go to our local sex shop and scan in everything from dildos to lubricant to harnesses. Then we’d go to one of those anti-spy shops and scan in all the phone tapping hardware and hidden surveillance cameras. We might even go to the costume shops and novelty stores in search of the strangest combinations of things we could buy. Like a gorilla suit, x-ray glasses, a wind-up walking penis and a velvet Elvis poster.

Then we’ll hit the Chinese supermarkets. Ha. Ha. Haaaa.

I got to meet a personal hero of mine yesterday.

The man you see over to the left is Bruce Campbell, the B movie star and hardworking actor extraordinaire of such cult classics as Evil Dead, Army of Darkness, Spider-Man, and most recently, Serving Sarah. He was also the leading man in The Adventures of Brisco County Jr., and portrayed recurring characters in Hercules and Xena on TV.

The man is a Schlock-Movie and Drek-TV God.

So, when I heard that he would be appearing at my local B&N to sign copies of his book I grabbed my copy off the shelf and ran, not walked, to the train. When I got to the store I immediately bought a half dozen more books and then spent the next four hours patiently waiting for his arrival with about 200 fellow fans.

Some of whom that were a tad more fragrant than I would have liked.

Bruce (We’re on first name terms cause I’m cool like that. Yo.) finally arrived and read a selection from his book and then opened the floor to questions. Some of which were actually interesting, most of which were the usual, “When’s there going to be an Army of Darkness 4?” variety. The best laugh of the evening was when someone’s cell phone rang and Bruce demanded to answer it himself.

[speaking in a deep, scary voice. very slowly.]
“Hello?”
“…”
“Amy? You want who?”
“…”
“I’m sorry, but Tim can’t come to the phone right now.”
“…”
“He’s busy. Unavailable.”
“…”
“He doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“…”
“I can’t tell you anymore right now or there will be… repercussions. Goodbye.”
[Bruce hangs up]
“People. Turn off your freaking cell phones.”

The crowd was roaring with laughter.

Anywaste, I thoroughly enjoyed myself and not only managed to get his autograph, but I actually got to sit and talk to him for a few moments. I also got a few photographs, just for this site, so I could share my astronomical level of Geekiness with the world at large.

Bruce & GeekMan.

Bagging Bruce.

I need new sneakers.

The sneakers I have now are so worn out and threadbare that lazy-eyed, pest-infested homeless people often stop me on the street and offer their shelter-donated 1978 Converse’s to me out of pity. The laces are so stretched out from constant tying and untying that they drag on the ground as I walk, even after double looping.

The treads are so worn down that I leave toe prints in mud.

I bought these sneakers over 14 months ago while I was in Puerto Rico. They’re old now and in need of retirement. If they had invested more wisely when they were new, then they might have been able to retire early with a nice pension. But did they? No.

Like most sneakers, they never thought of the future and now they’re paying for it.

You see, I’ve got my eye on a brand new pair. They’re hot. Colorful, sleek and sexy, they try to seduce me every time I pass by the Super-Sneaker-Store near my apartment. With their thick treads, bright colors and scuff-less outer leather shell they mock my worn out, beaten up, old, yet totally comfortable and reliable pair of sneaks. I find myself hating my old friends, this trusted pair of black & white with puke green accents Reeboks, just because they’re there. I blame them for every half-trip and stubbed toe in recent memory and sometimes even curse them in public. Loudly.

I even blame them when schoolgirls mock my Geeky walk to amuse their friends.

So now I find that I want those new sexy sneaks. Trade up, my inner self says. You deserve better. Sure, these old dogs were good once, they had bounce and style and panache. But what have they done for you lately, huh? Made you pratfall when you were trying to be cool for the cute girl behind the counter at Subway? Helped you feel like a wino-bum looking for a handout when you ran into your old Jr. High girlfriend, who’s now a successful CEO of a multi-billion dollar biotech company?

Don’t you deserve better?

Yes. Yes, I do. I deserve better and I’m going to prove it by buying new sneakers. It might not be much but maybe, just maybe, buying these sneakers will help turn my life around. Maybe I’ll find my niche, my own personal style. Perhaps all it will take is a brand new pair of sneaks to help me throw off this humble, Geeky outer shell and become the rock star, international super spy or Nobel Peace Prize winner that I’ve always known I could be. With those new sneaks I could be famous, I could be rich, and I could even be a contender!

Or, most likely, I’ll just be another Geek with a pair of ugly, overpriced sneakers. Whatever.

Last night HoBiscuit and I went out to eat with some friends. We went to a restaurant we’ve never been to before, a restaurant that everyone but me has been wanting to go to for a while. The kind of place that’s more about the scene, and being seen, than it is about the food.

I ordered the crab cake appetizer and shell steak entree.

This morning I woke to find that after paying the stated menu price of the food we ate last night, I’m still paying for it this morning. In sweat, tears and intensely painful spasms of gastrointestinal convulsions, my body is being forced to pay a tax on every bite that I took of that horrid, horrid food and I’m not sure how much longer I’ll survive.

Oh, man. My lower intestines just fired another warning shot across my colon’s bow.

Things are happening inside my stomach right now that would cause a goat to send me a Hallmark card of sympathy. Disease-ridden New York City giant rats are stopping by the apartment to find out if I’m carrying the plague, only to leave shaking their little heads and saying, “Stupid Geek. Even I wouldn’t have eaten that.”

The representatives of my local chapter of the Bugmob are just laughing.

I don’t know if I’ll be alive on Monday, so if you don’t hear from me by then you’ll know why. Send well wishes, notes of sympathy and donations to the “Get HoBiscuit A Real Man Fund” to

(The soon to be) Widow HoBiscuit

C/O Asses to Ashes Funeral Parlor

666 El Stupido Street

New York, NY 12345

Oh, god. I may never eat again.