Feeling Fowl

I really shouldn’t have said it.

When I woke up this morning it was to an empty bed. At first I was afraid that HoBiscuit had left me for less garlic-y pastures, but after a quick breath check I realized that aside from a minor case of morning breath I was fine. Rolling over, I checked the alarm clock to see if I was late for work, and nearly burst a blood vessel when I realized how early it was.

5:45am?! Son of a…

Lying back down, I closed my eyes and tried to will myself back to sleep. Unfortunately, I found that to be impossible. I didn’t know what it was, but something was nipping away at my subconscious like a starving, rabid, miniature llama with no teeth on the bloated corpse of a dead elephant and it just wouldn’t let me get back to sleep until I figured out what it was.

Heh. A toothless, mini-llama. I should put that in my Blog.

Anywaste, it was 5:45am and something I couldn’t quite put my finger on was pecking on my id like Woody Woodpecker on an anatomically correct wooden model of Britney Spears. I needed to get back to sleep because I had to get up in an hour to get to work, so I rolled over again and tried to think of what it could be that was nagging me at such an ungodly hour.

Rubbing away some eye-crust I stifled a yawn and pondered my predicament.

Was it the fact that HoBiscuit was mysteriously missing from the bedroom? Nah, she might have just gone to the bathroom or something. Was it to hot to sleep? Too cold? No, and no. Dammit, if only that moron outside with the jackhammer would stop for a minute, I just know I would figure out what was keeping me awake.

Wait a second…

Jumping up, I ran to the window and looked outside. Right across the street from us was a store that was being remodeled, and apparently no one over there thought that there was anything wrong with getting an early start on the day’s activities. A very early start. With the loudest, most obnoxious power tool they could possibly get their worthless, rude and thoughtless hands on. Mumbling some obscenities under my breath, and shouting a few choice phrases out the window, I resigned myself to my fate and went to the bathroom to wash up.

And discovered HoBiscuit asleep on the couch in the back room.

Apparently, the idiot with no sense of self preservation outside had been working for half an hour before I woke up, during which time HoBiscuit had gotten up, cursed the bastard and his entire ancestral line going back to the primordial spooge from which his particular strain of DNA is descended, and moved to the relative quite serenity of the room furthest from his offensive noise pollution. Why she didn’t simply go outside and remove his nuts with our vacuum cleaner, I’ll never know.

Hey, it could happen. We have a Dirt Devil.

Knowing that there was no possible way I could go back to sleep, I went to the bathroom and started my morning cleanup ritual. Looking around the sink area, I saw my little, morning friend; Ducky. My mind briefly recounted how happy HoBiscuit had been when we decided that the silly looking porcelain duck would become our official toothbrush holder. She had fallen in love with it on first sight and, truth be told, it had grown on me too.

However, I still think the ducky towels are going too far.

Hoping that Ducky would bestow upon me better luck than I had been subject to so far, I wished him a good morning as I pulled my brush from his anus. Deftly pushing down on the paste-pump to apply the Mentadent toothpaste, and barely pausing to get the brush wet, I began brushing vigorously in a circular motion just the way my satanic, fascist, Nazi dentist ordered me to on my last visit.

Then I remembered we had switched to Colgate. In a tube.

Spiting out the sanitizing hand soap I had mistaken for toothpaste I rinsed my mouth out and began again, this time making sure to apply the correct cleansing solution to my toothbrush. After finishing that chore I proceeded to gargle, first double checking to make sure it was mouthwash and not Drain-o I was using, and turned on the water in the tub to take a shower.

You can see it coming, can’t you?

From the kind of day I was having you’d think I would’ve checked the water temperature before I got in the tub. You’d think that, but you’d be wrong. Because not only did I NOT check, I even failed to notice the thin layer of frost on the showerhead. My first clue that something was amiss was when I jumped underneath the full spray of water and upon contact my gonads shrank to the size of grape seeds and shot into my body cavity with enough force to puncture 3 inches of steel. If you’re female, imagine giving birth to a large Christmas tree.

With ornaments. Backwards.

30 seconds later, after the fastest and most curse-filled shower in the history of mankind, I reached for the shower curtain to get out of the tub. You can well imagine that by this time I should have known that something was going to go bad for me. For example, you’d think that I would have remembered that the bathtub is very close to the bathroom sink. And perhaps if I had simply slowed down a moment and thought about it, I would have recalled that Ducky just happened to sit on the side of the sink that’s closest to the shower curtain. And quite possibly I would have then noticed that a small portion of the shower curtain had gotten bunched up behind Ducky’s porcelain behind.

But I didn’t.

And so, to the nice receptionist at the office I’m doing some work for, I hope that you’ll now understand why, when you asked me how I was doing on this fine and beautiful day, I used my most venomous and sarcastic tone of voice to say,

“I’m just frickin Ducky. Now shut up and leave me alone.”

Help Me Choose, But Help Me Choose Wisely

I think I just might hang myself with a USB cable.

I’m looking to buy myself a new notebook computer and being the UberGeek that I am, I feel compelled to do due diligence up the wazoo and research the Snausages out of all the currently available laptops before I make my purchase. So, after spending fleeting moments picking the mounds of silly putty that pass for brains amongst the tech departments of the major computer stores within thirty steps of my front door, and after spending minute after minute sifting through the Google search results for “awesomest most ‘leet laptop computer in the frickin world” and after spending the barest minimum amount of time compiling a list of suitable computer manufacturers from whom I would even consider buying from without demanding my sales reps first born as collateral, I think I’m almost ready to make my decision.

So far, I’ve narrowed down my choices to these select few manufacturers;

  • Acer
  • Alienware
  • Dell
  • Fujitsu
  • Gateway
  • IBM
  • Sager
  • Sony
  • Toshiba
  • Winbook

Well… perhaps ‘narrowed down’ is a little misleading.

At least I’ve managed to cross HP/Compaq off the list so far. Of course, they were never on the list to begin with since I hate their computers with a passion usually reserved for people who talk on their cell phones while breast feeding a their baby in a crowded movie theater.

Or Celine Dion. Whichever.

Anywaste, since I’m a lazy bastard and I actually believe that my visitors are a smart and tech savvy bunch of people, I’m looking for your help with making my decision. What? You’d be happy to offer your advice? Great! I knew you would be! Let me tell you a little more about what I’m looking for in my new laptop;

  • 512 MB RAM
  • 20GB or greater hard drive
  • 14” or larger screen
  • Minimum 1024x768x32bit resolution
  • Minimum 32 MB DEDICATED video RAM
  • ATI or nVidia graphics card
  • CDRW/DVD combo drive or equivalent
  • Built in 10/100Mbps LAN and 56K modem
  • Preferably built in 802.11b wireless or optional add-in card at time of purchase
  • At least 2 USB ports
  • Preferably at least 1 Firewire port
  • At least one year of on-site service and support
  • Win XP Pro
  • Under $2,100 including shipping and tax

See? It’s not like I’m asking for the impossible or anything, right?

You might have noticed a few things that are missing from that list, most noticeably there’s no processor mentioned. That’s because any of the newest processors would be more than enough for my needs. For arguments sake though, we could say that anything above a P4 2Ghz and an AMD 18000+ would be fine.

The new Intel Centrino’s would be even better. *drool*

Sound doesn’t matter to me; I like my VEHTS better anyway. I also don’t care about floppy drives or battery life. I can’t remember the last time I used a floppy drive and if I ever use the damn thing for more than 10 minutes unplugged I think I might fall down dead in shock. I might go into convulsions first and foam at the mouth, but trust me; I’d be on the ground and dead in less than a minute. Pushing up the daisy’s before you could even think of pressing Ctrl+Alt+Del.

So smart guy, what laptop computer would you suggest?

Maybe I’m Afraid Of Vampires

It seemed so harmless at first.

Thursday night I went out with some friends for dinner at a restaurant I had never been to before. I ordered a wonderfully tasty 16oz steak covered with some type of garlic sauce. It did come with a side of unidentified green vegetables, but I was too busy shoving steak down my throat with a sawed off chair leg to notice what it was.

The waiter suggested using compressed air, but that gives me gas.

Walking down the street on Friday afternoon, I was struck by the sudden need to have myself a slice or three of pizza. Of course, in order to properly eat world famous Brooklyn pizza, one must add some ‘perfection enhancing’ condiments to the superheated slice of heaven on earth before one can fully enjoy eating it. Of course, I’m talking about some crushed red pepper and a little garlic.

OK, a lot of garlic.

Later that day, Mother Geek came over for a visit and I decided to cook a nice dinner for her and HoBiscuit. I chose to make my infamous garlic & pepper filet mignon and garlic mashed potatoes, with sautéed onions and spinach as a second side dish. The ladies and I ate everything on our plates and then spent the next two hours picking spinach out of our teeth.

Have you caught on to the pattern yet?

Saturday afternoon I had Chinese food, specifically chicken in garlic sauce. For dinner, I went to a favorite restaurant of mine and ordered a dish that has as its main ingredients, beef & garlic.

Ah, I can see the light coming on over your head.

To make this long story a little shorter I have had at least one meal a day for the last four days that has had garlic in it. And now it is early Monday morning and I am not asleep in my bed. I am not sleeping even though I should be and even though HoBiscuit is happily snoring away in dreamland. Why am I not in bed, you ask?

Because I stink.

I stink to high-frickin-heaven, I do. I used to love garlic, but I tell you garlic is no longer my friend. HoBiscuit has made it very clear that no one who smells like garlic will be kissing her good night tonight and no matter how many times I brush my teeth or gargle with mouthwash; I continue to smell like garlic. So, while I’m stuck here in front of the computer with the foul odor of garlic wafting up from my body like the dust cloud of dirt from PigPen in those Peanuts cartoons, I thought I might as well ask you folks a question; Do you think it was a good idea for me to eat the leftover garlic bread as a midnight snack?

Uh-huh, I thought so. Dammit.

Submission #0000001

Citizens, Behold! A new Heroic Team is born!

The meek and timid mass of humanity living within the Big City need never fear the mechanizations of the villainous underworld lying just beneath the surface of their ordinary world again. The good people of AnySmall Town have two new defenders of Justice, two new Protectors of the Way, two new Heroes of Note who are willing to fight for the rights of The Little Guy.

And to them, we are all ‘The Little Guys’.

They shall protect the people of their world, these Mighty Saviors, this Dynamic Duo. No crime shall go unpunished while they are on duty. No shifty-eyed super-villain will escape from the vice-like grip of their Pincers of Righteousness. They are the Defenders of the Defenseless. They will dictate to the Dictator and be heard. They are the Right Hand of Justice, the Left Foot of Freedom, the Throbbing Sexual Organ of Democracy.

They are Bush Master and The Blair Bitch!

Empty-headed public speakers by day, these two Fighters of the Good Fight are ever-ready to jump into action. Sliding down Cleverly Hidden Poles in their secluded mansion whenever the Walkie-Talkie of Imminent Danger should glow with an Amber Alert, they reach the Secret Cave of Pleasure Wonder and don their Plastic & Lycra Battle Suits, complete with Nipple Plates & Codpiece, to rid the world of the evildoers who would threaten the liberties of those under their protection. Their Fanny Packs of Many Uses containing all their tricks and toys for fighting crime belted tightly to their waists.

Bush-A-Rangs and Ultimatum Nunchucks included.

Jumping into The Mighty Mini, Big Dubya and the Boy Blunder race off into the night in search of danger, adventure and any wrongs they need to make right. Perhaps there has been another cowardly attack on Gotham by Osama, The Riddlizer? Could it be that Frances François, better known as Two-Faced, is causing trouble again? Or is it another sick and twisted game being played by their arch-enemy Saddam, the Practical Jokester? Whatever it is, whatever the cost, you can be sure that Bush Master and the Blair Bitch are out there right now, doing everything they can to protect Joe Sixpack and Jane Boxowine from the evils of the world around them.

BushMaster and The Blair Bitch. Coming next season to the WB. Be There!

Thanks to Solonor for pointing this stupidity out to me.

Voices In My Head

OK. I’m home, now what?

Well Me, we could always finish that new site redesign we’ve been working on for the last month. It’s almost all done, just a few tweaks left, and all we really have to do is upload the new graphics and style sheet. But we both know we won’t do that, don’t we? Too much like real work for our lazy ass, isn’t it?

Shut up, Self.

Awwww. Did I hurt someone’s feelings? Are we going to cry now? Huh? You wanna cry? Go ahead and cry you simpering wimp. I can’t wait to tell Bread how much of a pus…

Shut up! Dammit, I need a new inner monologue.

Quit complaining. I’m the best you can afford so suck it up and deal. Since you didn’t like my first suggestion, how about we do something else? Something that is fun, monotonous, time consuming and doesn’t take any real thought to accomplish?

Ex-Boxx?!

Not quite. I was thinking more along the lines of personal grooming. Off the top of my head, how about clipping our nails? You know, our toenails are getting just a little long. In fact, the only reason we aren’t in an airport security holding cell right now is that our left pinky toenail is technically 1/9th of an inch less than the requisite 3” necessary for confiscation.

Well, they did let me through, didn’t they?

Yeah, but only after they gave you that full body cavity search. Without using any lubricant and in full view of the entire airport. Come to think of it, wasn’t there a really attractive brunette standing nearby watching the whole thing and laughing?

Well, she didn’t help things when she pointed at my crotch and screamed, “I didn’t know they could shrink!”

Ah. Yes, that was a little embarrassing, wasn’t it? But isn’t it funny how she turned out to be your seatmate for the entire trip back home? And I thought it was really quite clever of her when the flight attendant came by with the peanuts and she offered to give you hers because, ‘it looked like you can use all the nuts you can get.’

Argh. Must you bring that up again?

Now, and at least once a week for the rest of our life, buddy.

Dammit.

The King Is Dead

A little advice.

If you ever should happen to find yourself walking past the Flamingo Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas at around two in the afternoon you should do yourself a favor and close your eyes, plug your ears and run for your life. If you don’t, then you have a very good chance of being scarred for life as you witness the worst impersonation of all time. A very fat, middle-aged, tone-deaf and Asian Elvis singing, ‘Hound Dog’.

Trust me, it’s not nearly as amusing as it sounds.

Viva Las Vegas

I’m a gambling Geek, I am.

Some of you might be wondering to yourselves, “Self, just what in tarnation is GeekMan doing in Las Vegas?” Well, let me fill you in. You see, on Friday afternoon at about 2pm I received a call from an on-again/off-again client of mine who needed a little help with a project. Since I just happened to have nothing to do for the next few days, I heartily agreed to earn some cash and help them out of their predicament. As soon as I said yes though, they told me to start packing.

Son of a…

“Wait a second. I thought this was a small job that you just needed a backup artist for?”
“Well, GeekMan, we may have understated the problem a little bit.”
“Oh crap. How much trouble am I in?”
“Weeeellllll…”
“What?! That bad?”
“Ahem. The thing is we need you to fly to Vegas. Ummm, immediately.”

To say I was less than pleased would have been a massive understatement.

“Holy llamas in pajamas! Vegas? Well, at least I might be able to do some gambling…”
“Probably not. We expect that even with your help we’ll be working 18 hours a day to get this thing off the ground.”

Son of a…

So now, here I am in Vegas. I’d say it was nice out, but I really wouldn’t know. I’ve been here for three days and I haven’t seen the sun, the moon or even a craps table yet. I’ve been worked like a dog, no… I take that back. I’ve actually been worked like a starving, rabid, one-legged sled dog fleeing a polar bear in Antarctica and I still don’t know what my hotel room looks like besides a vague imprint of a raised, circular bathtub in the middle of the room and a large, if uncomfortable, bed. Oh, and there are mirrors above the bed.

Mirrors. Above the bed. Ye gods, it’s just like hell, only seedier.

Living On The Edge

I’m going to try something new.

It’s been pointed out to me by several people that I write very long entries. According to those people this is sometimes ‘not a good thing’ because sometimes people just want a quickie. Something they can read, laugh at and move on from in as short a period of time as possible.

Well, la-dee-frickin-DA.

So beginning today I am creating a new category here called, ironically enough, ‘Quickie’. And to start it off, here’s today’s quickie brought to you by the letters M, G, and the color Tope Taupe.

If a woman on a popular ‘reality’ TV show declares that if a man asked two women friends to have a threesome with him he’d be surprised at how many women would say yes, it is never a good idea to turn to your fiancée and exclaim, “You mean I could have had you AND your sexy friend at the same time?!”

No good will ever come of that. Believe you, me.

Things To Do When Bored #429

Originality is overrated.

This was originally posted in September 2001 but has since disappeared from my archives. Luckily, I managed to find a draft of it on my computer yesterday and so I now present it to you again in its entirety.

I hope to god it’s still funny.

I was so bored last night that I decided to do some self-mutilation using a pair of nail clippers and a very sharp, pointy-type bottle opener. Some people would have called what I did a poor man’s manicure, but with all the pain and blood and crying like a little girl, I prefer to call it an initiation rite for masochists.

Either that or I’m just a schmuck.

How do people do this to themselves on a regular basis? Granted, I didn’t have the proper tools for the job and the bottle opener I used was a little on the rusty side, but the basic idea is the same. Trim your nails with a nail clipper and use a small, sharp object to scrape off your cuticles. It didn’t seem that difficult at first, but when I found myself curled up in a ball sobbing for my mommy on the floor of the living room I realized that I may have made a slight error in judgement. It seems I just didn’t have the necessary hand-eye coordination for this delicate personal grooming procedure which explains why my internal monologue went something like this;

Hmmm. This isn’t so hard. I don’t know why people pay to… yow! That’s going to leave a mark. Concentrate GeekMan, concentrate. Just scrape along the… OW! That was painful. Well, let’s try to avoid doing that again, shall we? OK. Moving on to the pointer finger we’ll just slowly… Damn! Stupid bottle opener. Who’d have thought there would be this much blood from such a tiny, little hole? K, let’s try the middle finger… Ow, owowowowow. What am I doing wrong here? Maybe I shouldn’t be going so deep under the skin with this thing? Maybe I should get some Band-Aids. Funny, it seems to be getting darker all of a sudden. Wow, that’s a lot of blood. I wonder where it came from? Look at all the pretty lights… What’s that rushing noise…?

I don’t remember much after that.

I guess that for some reason last night I thought this would be a quick, easy little procedure that I could do during a CSI commercial break and still have time left over to make some peanut butter cracker snacks. Oh, I just love those peanut butter and cracker snacks. You know, they’re like Ritz bits but you make them yourself? You just smear some peanut butter between two Ritz crackers and off you go.

It’s like a parade for your mouth.

If you’ve never tried this delicacy then you’ve obviously never been to Wolfgang Puck’s place for Monday Night Football. The Puckster (yeah, we’re that close) even makes his own peanut butter by crushing the peanuts between his well developed butt-cheeks. If he’s in a really good mood he’ll cut the crackers into little footballs and helmets before serving them to his guests. Unfortunately, whenever his team scores a touchdown he throws his cutting board on the floor and does a victory dance on the kitchen counter.

He can be such a tool sometimes.

Anyway, in retrospect I guess using a sharp, pointy object on my delicate fingers wasn’t such a smart thing to do. After a little research I found out that most of the cuticle-scraping devices are blunt instead of sharp, which only makes sense because then it’s much less likely that you’ll pass out from blood loss. Right now, my fingers look like teats for starving vampire babies and I have an almost uncontrollable urge to drink about thirty gallons of orange juice. I might need to call Billy Mays and order some Oxiclean to get these stains out of my shirt, but no matter how much I clean the bottle opener; I don’t think I’ll be using it to open anything ever again.

And people say I don’t learn from my mistakes. Sheesh.

No G-News Is Good G-News

Ah, the memories of youth.

“Get on board, step inside,
Soaring for a magic ride,
Roaring toward the other side,
Where only rainbows hide…”

When I was a young Geek, I remember sitting in front of the TV every morning before school and singing along to the greatest children’s show of all time. I had friends on that show, friends who would teach me things that Mr. Rogers and Big Bird couldn’t, or wouldn’t, teach me at all. Things like, how to properly insult a friend without them actually getting angry with you. Or teaching me what makes a practical joke both practical and funny. Or helping me understand that so called ‘real’ news programs should be a lot more cynical if they wanted to be funny.

Of course, I’m talking about The Great Space Coaster.

Gary Gnu, Goriddle Gorilla, Edison Elephant, Baxter, Speed Reader, Roy, Fran, Dan, and the evil M.T. Promises made each day a joy. My favorite parts of the show were the Gary Gnu G-News show and whenever Goriddle would play a practical joke on Edison. Damn, I really didn’t like Edison, with his hand-held trunk, satellite dish ears and obsessive-compulsive dusting. I always thought the other cast members should have just killed him and had space elephant steaks for the rest of the year.

Mmmmm… Space elephant steak. [drool]

Well, I’ve been doing a little research on the show lately to find out if there are any toys or other paraphernalia that I could purchase and thus revisit, however pathetically it might be, my long-lost youth. I haven’t found any items to buy yet, but I have found out some startling facts about the people on the show that I thought I’d take a moment to share with all of you.

No, no. Don’t thank me now. That look of stoic, martyred tolerance in your eyes is more than enough.

Remember ‘Fran’? You know, the almost cute but not quite good looking girl from the show? Yeah, she was my first TV crush, too. And I’ve always thought she was dead, you know, like how everyone thinks Mickey Rooney is dead until he shows up at the Academy Awards? Well guess what? I found out that Fran’s not dead and is in fact alive and well and doing an off-off-Broadway show! Not only that, but if you’ve ever heard the commercial for Sleepy’s mattresses then you’ve heard her singing!

That’s right; she sings the Sleepy’s song.

“Trust Sleepy’s, for the rest of your life.”

I also found out that her real name isn’t Fran, it’s Emily Bindiger. But you know what? She’ll always be Fran to me. Fran of the sky blue colored shirts and bright yellow suspender pants. Fran of the wild, untamed hair held back with banana clips and scrunchies. Fran, who I always believed was sharing a secret smile with Edison Elephant and his long, thick trunk.

Oh, how my adolescent loins yearned for Fran and her wicked, evil ways.

I also found out, much to my chagrin, that the voice actor of Goriddle Gorilla is none other than my archenemy, Kevin Clash. For those of you who don’t know, Kevin is also the voice of Elmo of Sesame Creep Street fame. I really hate Elmo, but now that I know Kevin was also the voice of Goriddle maybe I should be a bit more lenient towards him and his new alter ego.

Nah, Elmo’s still a frickin annoying piece of crap.

Well, I’m still looking for merchandise from the show, or even something made recently that is based on the show, like those new Muppet Show figures I’m seeing everywhere. Haven’t found anything worth my money yet, though. Woe is me.

“On the Great Space Coaster, whoa-oh-oh,
On the Great Space Coaster, off we go…”

Oh man, I really miss that show.