Sometimes My Visitors Still Frighten Me. A Lot.
Mighty Cool
I was a handsome devil.
Doing a pirouette in front of the mirror one last time, I smiled at my reflection (letting my dimples nearly swallow my head) and skipped to the door. My mother and brother had been ready to leave for my cousins wedding for the last half an hour, but when it comes to the perfection that was me, they knew I could not be rushed. Rushing would produce imperfections, you understand, and imperfections were not acceptable to people who were in all ways perfect.
You know, people like me.
Upon seeing me in my powder blue, velvet collard tuxedo and puffy, ruffled shirt, my mother nearly cried as she gushed about how good I looked. And I could do nothing but agree with her. I was damn good looking. I mean, with my Flobie haircut, oversized, black, velvet bowtie and polyester pants, what girl could resist me?
That’s right, none of them could. Not. One. Single. Female.
And that wasn’t even taking into account my disarming ability to charm girls and women of all ages with my innate ability to say the exact wrong thing in any social situation in my high-pitched, frightened-girl-screeching-at-a-spider-like voice. You know, things like, “Grandma smells like rotten medicine. Do I have to kiss her?” Or, “Aunt L, what’s a dirty who-ah? My mommy keeps calling you that every time you talk to my daddy.” And my personal favorite, “Hi Christine! My daddy said I should take you outside and ‘Give her what’s she’s begging for.’ but you can’t have my Big Wheel, no matter how much you beg.”
I was such a ladies man.
As proof of my studly-manliness, here’s a photo of me at my cousins wedding right before the DJ started playing The Hustle by Van McCoy and I lit up the dance floor like a mini-Travolta covered in napalm. Yeah, that’s right ladies. You know you want me. And you know that I know you want me. And I know that you know that I know you want me. Oh yes, it’s an infinite and perpetual circle of lust that will only grow stronger the more you resist. Give in ladies; give in to my obvious charms and your most base desires. Come to the Geek. Embrace the Geek. Love the Geek.
Yeah, baby! YEAH!
Holding My Tongue
I’m back from Atlanta.
I’m tired, I’m hungry and I have a sore on my tongue the size of a nickel and it hurts like heck. Whenever I talk it feels like there’s an army of tiny Argonauts on my teeth stabbing my tongue with tiny, needle-sharp swords. Just swallowing my own spit is an effort of willpower worthy of an unrepentant torture victim during the Inquisition and don’t even get me started on eating.
Even soup makes me cry.
All I want now is a bathtub full of Anbesol and a soft bed so I can sleep. I won’t even think about humor until I’m able to eat without feeling so much pain that I actually want to rip my tongue out of my mouth and cauterize the open sore with a white-hot branding iron. I’m in pain folks, The Mighty Geek has found his Kryptonite and he has been defeated.
Woe is me.
I Am Not The Man
I went to a funeral yesterday.
It was for my Grand-Aunt P. who was an amazing 97 years old. And although my entire family is saddened by her passing, we are still the Geek family and so we could not let such a gathering go by without at least one true moment of embarrassment that will live forever in the annals of our family’s shame.
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Devil Came Down To Georgia
Hide your daughters.
I’m headed down to Atlanta this weekend where I’ll be doing some work, meeting some family and hanging out with my bestest friend in the whole, wide world, Mr. Hentai. I’m also hoping that I’ll find the time to sleep while I’m down there so I can finally get rid of this annoying eye-tick, especially since none of the home-brewed remedies that I tried yesterday seem to have worked at all. But with all the work I’m going to be doing and all the people I’m hoping to see I really doubt that I’ll even see the inside of my hotel room, let alone get into the bed.
BTW, jabbing a straw in your cornea to stop it twitching HURTS. A lot.
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Must… Resist… Psychotic Urges!
My left eyelid is twitching.
I’m not kidding. It’s shaking and shivering like an epilectic midget lying naked on a windy iceberg. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but if I had to hazard a guess, I’d probably say it had something to do with lack of sleep. For the last month or so I’ve been working so much that I haven’t had time to sit down for a meal, let alone sleep more than 54.7 seconds at a time and I guess it’s finally caught up with me.
Damn. There it goes again!
It’s not like it’s a noticeable twitch, either. Because a noticeable twitch might actually be fun to have, y’know? I mean, I could walk up to strangers and demand money and when they looked at me they’d see a crazy guy with a twitching eye and hand over all their spare change. Viola, instant cab fare! All of the other beggars in the world would come from miles around to learn how to make their eyes twitch like mine so they could garner more pity/fear and thus make more money.
I’d be worshipped as a beggar-king! Like Aladdin, or Ali-Baba!
And because I think it sounds cool and everyone would be too afraid to argue with me, I’d be known as The Crazy One Eyed Psycho-Geek from Madagascar. Secret agents would contact me to find out what’s happening with the world according to my international “Underground Intelligence” network. I’d wear an old British naval officer’s outfit, complete with medals, a ruffled shirt and a weird hat, and I’d walk with a pronounced limp and have lots of fake jewelry hanging off my dirty coat.
Most importantly, I’d have a pet ring-tailed lemur named “Spooky”.
Man, this fricking twitch is annoying. Maybe I should do something about it besides holding my left eye and screaming obscenities at myself. I tried banging my head on the sharp edge of the desk earlier today, but all that did was override the twitch annoyance feeling with a little pain. Wait! That’s it! What I really need is a fricking whole lot of pain to take my mind off this stupid twitch! I’ll just stab myself in the eye repeatedly with this nice drinking straw and see if that works. If not, I’ll just smash my face into this monitor and rub salt into my cuts and bruises.
Hey, if I’m not here tomorrow somebody call the Marines, OK?
I’m Dreaming Of A White (Hot) Chocolate
But it’s turning into a nightmare.
I’m searching the entire world for something I fricking know exists but can’t find anywhere and it’s driving me crazy. Well… actually, I think cazy-er would be more correct. Anywaste, I need to find powdered hot chocolate, but not just any hot chocolate. No, that would be too fricking easy, wouldn’t it? What I need is powdered WHITE hot chocolate.
What do you mean, ‘Why?’
Obviously because I want the hot chocolate to look like snow because I got this really cool idea for some gift thingies where I have a little glass bowl and the hot chocolate would be a snowy landscape with cinnamon trees all around and I’d have little marshmallow snowmen having a snowball fight with tiny marshmallow dogs running around leaving chocolate chip poop and one of the snowmen could be writing his name in the snow with lemon-juice pee and…
…
WTF are you looking at?
…
Oh.
Ahem. Well then, never you mind why I need it, I just do. OK?
I remember having powdered Swiss Miss white hot chocolate as a kid, but I can’t find any mention of it on the ConAgra Foods website, so I can only assume that it no longer exists. The closest that I’ve come so far is this product from Ghirardelli, but unfortunately it’s a little too expensive for the purpose I want to use it for. If anyone can find it, or something like it, for less than $3 per 16oz. I’d be so happy I might even grab my pom-poms, jump up and down in my underwear and do a cheer for them.
On second thought, maybe I’ll just buy them a Mighty Messenger Bag instead.
Happy Halloween!
It all started innocently enough.
I was sitting on the couch in my tighty whities watching a Wonder Woman rerun on Nick At Nite when I heard the noise. Not “noise” really, but a sound that I can only imagine might be made by a duck dressed up in a ninja outfit, complete with face mask, as it tried to hold back a startled quack-scream of pain as it stepped on a rusty nail and fell to its ducky-knees in agony on my kitchen floor while accidentally knocking down an over-burdened dish/drying rack of pots and pans.
And my leftover linguini.
I would have ignored the noise, writing it off as my overactive imagination again, but for the fact that I distinctly heard a hushed voice say “Idiot.” followed almost immediate by “Shuddup!” and the sound of a wooden nunchuck hitting a feathery head. Not wanting to become a victim of fowl play, I quietly made my way to the kitchen to investigate the rising sounds of a barely muffled melee. Turning the corner, I reached out in the darkness for the light switch with one hand while the other silently pulled my katana ‘DaffySlayer’ out of the umbrella stand I keep it in for just such an emergency. And you’d be surprised at how many emergencies call for a katana to be in an umbrella stand.
Or under the bed. Or behind the toilet.
As I stood there in the darkness, preparing myself for what I just knew was going to be the fight of my life, I listened to the sounds emanating from my kitchen and determined that there were between five and nine enemies within. Tightening my grip on DaffySlayer, I flicked the switch and rushed into the kitchen intent on repelling the invaders, no matter who they were. I was lucky that I caught them by surprise because the first two black-clad intruders fell by my hand before the rest new what was happening. Unfortunately for me, my momentum carried me into their midst and that’s when I realized that there were more than nine of them crowding inside my kitchen. Far, far more than nine.
With a howl the hoard of ninja ducks attacked and I prepared myself for death.
Wasted Youth
Who wants to feel old?
If you’ve ever played Pong, Space Invaders or Super Mario Brothers as a kid, then you MUST read this article. However, I strongly recommend that you do not read it while drinking, as the liquid you are trying to consume will instead come shooting out of your nose and splatter across your computer screen which will most likely set off an electrical fire that will burn down your home and all your worldly possessions, making you a pathetic, homeless beggar on the street selling your teeth for drug money and Cheetos.
Mmmm… Cheetos. All I need now is a Tab…
Mother Of Babel
[sounds of ringing telephone]
GeekMan:
“Hello?”GeekMom:
“GeekMan! You’ve got to help me! The Thing isn’t working!”GeekMan:
“Mom? What thing are you talking about?”GeekMom:
“You know, The Thing. The Thing we just got.”GeekMan:
“Oh. Right, The Thing. What’s wrong with it?”GeekMom:
“When I turn it on it just beeps and then a message comes up telling me something’s wrong.”GeekMan:
“OK, I think I understand now and there’s no need to panic mom. I can fix The Thing this weekend.”GeekMom:
“OK, but there’s something else. I can’t get to My Stuff.”GeekMan:
“Your Stuff?”GeekMom:
“You know, My Stuff. My Pages. Like the weather page, my stamps pages and my mail stuff. You know, My Pages.”GeekMan:
“Oh. You mean The Thing won’t connect so you can get to Your Pages?”GeekMom:
“Yeah.”GeekMan:
“What about The Old Thing?”GeekMom:
“Oh, The Old Thing is fine. But The New Thing just makes noises and doesn’t… whatchamacallit, connect.”GeekMan:
“OK mom, I think there might be a real problem with The Thing. I’ll need to call The People to figure out what’s wrong with The New Thing. In the meantime, if you need to get to Your Stuff, connect with The Old Thing and we’ll transfer Your Stuff to The New Thing this weekend. Is that OK?”GeekMom:
“Yeah, that sounds fine.”GeekMan:
“Good. I’ve got to get back to work now, so I’ll talk to you later, OK?”GeekMom:
“OK. Love you, and tell WhoreCookie I said hi.”GeekMan:
“Uh, mom? Who’s WhoreCookie?”GeekMom:
“Crap! You know who I meant!”
[end phone call]