There used to be a picture here, but at the request of Annessa it has been removed.
GeekMan,
How do I adore thee? Let me count the ways…
One, Two – boobies!
Here is a picture for you, showing my love. Now this deserves a link!I adore you!
I’ve got a fan! Take that and toast it where the sun don’t shine Bread! Right up the old yeast-hole, you little bastard. Sideways. With relish.
Now if you’ll excuse me, for some odd reason I have a sudden craving for milk…
OK, let me see if I understand this.
I’m not a real person. I’m actually an artistic representation of a medieval saint carved in marble and displayed at the foot of some stairs inside Saint Marks Cathedral in New York. Never mind what a York is, let alone a new one, I’ll just accept the fact that I’m in a really famous and holy church somewhere and leave it at that.
At least I’ve got steady employment.
So, I’m made of marble. And what does that mean to me? It means that I’ll never be able to move, not even a little bit, no matter how hard I try. In other words, I’ve been wasting my time for the last 100 frickin’ years trying to move my left hand so I could scratch my god damn nose. So, I’m going to have this annoying itch on the tip of my unmoving, marble nose for the rest of my frickin’ existence, right?
Damn.
So, if I’m a saint, tell me why I’m wearing this stupid sombrero. What? It’s not a sombrero? A halo? Really? Well slap my ass and steal my sandals! For the last 200 hundred years here I am thinking that I’m a Mexican with the ugliest poncho in existence when I’m actually not Mexican at all.
No wonder I can’t understand Spanish.
Hey! I bet the hotties really dig a guy with a halo. I mean, intellectually I know all about that whole celibacy thing, but that’s only when I’m on duty, right? When I punch out at five or whatever I can still go down to the local house of sin with my homeys and get jiggy with it, right? Right?
Crap.
And what’s up with my vice-like death grip on this humongous key? I haven’t been able to feel my fingers for the last 80 freaking years. Do you think I might be able to put it down, just for a minute? Come on, I’ve got a bad case of carpel tunnel syndrome in my right hand and that’s the hand I refer to as my ‘personal masseuse’, if you catch my drift. Honestly, just 30 seconds. Give a saint a break, will ya?
Bastard.
OK, ok. Fine. I can deal with all this. I’m made of marble, I’m a saint and I’ll never be able to know the pleasures of the flesh or even scratch my own damn nose. Great. Perfect. No problem.
But, before you go, could you please just answer one question for me?
If I’m such a holy person, and this is such a holy place, why the hell do those little carvings on my left look like erect and flaccid penis’? How’s a saint supposed to contemplate the meaning of life, the word of god and all that other holy crap while staring at male genitalia all day? I mean, honestly. Who am I? Saint Dick?
What? Son of a bitch!
I knew there would be repercussions.
It’s not as if I didn’t expect it. I knew when I did what I did that I would get in trouble for it. It was just a matter of time before the proverbial poo hit the metaphorical fan.
I just didn’t expect it so soon.
“Bub, you’re in big trouble.”
Now, before I tell you the next part I feel that I should take a moment to defend myself. See, I had just gotten out of the shower and was going through my dresser drawers looking for clothes. It was right after I put on my underwear when he jumped out from my sock drawer, wearing a blood-red hockey mask and holding a rolled up magazine like a knife. Keeping that image in mind, it’s perfectly understandable, and natural, for me to react the way I did. There’s nothing wrong with what happened next, and I’m sure most of you would have reacted the same way if you found yourself face to face with a very angry piece of bread wielding a paper knife.
That’s right. I screeched like a ring-tailed lemur in heat, and pooed in my tighty-whities.
Continue reading
I’m back and better than before.
Unfortunately, I’ve been completely unable to make skinning work on this site in the way I wanted it to, so for now I’ve given up on making this site skinnable at all. I’m going with this new, cool blue theme for a bit. At least until I get tired of it and change it for something else I’ve been working on. Take a look around and tel me if anything’s broken or not working for you. I promise to look into any problems you might bring to my attention.
Eventually.
In the meantime, it’s back to witty and humorous stupidity here at The Mighty Geek. So sit back, grab a drink and get ready for all the good times ahead.
No, really. There’ll be good times. I promise.
One-day!
One-day!
One-day!
This weekend will mark the beginning of the Great & Powerful Website Redesign and Rededication Act of 2002 for The Mighty Geek v2.0. Due to the ongoing construction behind the scenes and out of sight of the general public, visitors to TMG may be led to believe that nothing is happening and that the proprietor has simply disappeared. The untrained web surfer may even believe that GeekMan is merely taking a three day weekend to spend time with his fiancé, and is not in fact working tirelessly on his site to better entertain his demanding and lovingly coveted audience.
Do not be fooled.
Be safe in the knowledge that GeekMan is chained tightly to his computer desk in order to meet his deadline of “sometime real soon now”. He and his kooky cadre of creepy cohorts are working night and day to make this site better than ever, or at least marginally less bad. And although GeekMan made us sign a non-disclosure agreement so we cannot give away any details of the upcoming TMG v.2, we are allowed to hint at a few things that may or may not make it into the final release.
The Mighty Geek version 2.0 will launch any day now. Be sure to keep your eyes on this space over the next few hours days indefinite span of time of no less than three earth days, so you can be the first to see the new and improved TMG! Don’t let your online friends be the first to see it, beat them to the punch by camping out in front of your computer monitor for the next few days and reloading TMG until something changes. It’s going to happen! We really mean it!
One-day!
ONE-DAY!
ONE-DAY SOON! Be there!
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.
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.
Wanting to get involved in a meaningful movement before graduating college, and before it becomes trendy, Suzie MacDuffus and her friend Jennifer Berkowitz are seen here doing what they call ‘BlogChalking’.
Suzi was all too happy to explain the BlogChalking movement.
“It’s, like, a way for us to let the world know about our Blogs. This way, when someone wants to know more about, you know, a Blog, they can just read the sidewalk and find out more about it. So, for example, if someone wanted to know more about my Blog, they could just come here and read this BlogChalk on the street and know that I’m a girl, I like Bon Jovi, I go to school around here and other neat stuff like that.”
When asked what a Blog is, Suzie just shrugs her shoulders.
“I’m not really sure but, like, I think it’s some sort of alternate energy source? Or maybe it’s a way to harness karma or something? To tell the truth I don’t think it really matters what a Blog is because it’s the BlogChalking movement that’s important. Everyone should be doing this because if we don’t, then the terrorists win, right? And who could argue with that?”
Passersby were not impressed with Suzi and Jen’s dedication.
“These girls are wackos.” Said James Douglass, a pamphleteer and part-time musician. “They’re here every day, writing all their vital statistics on the sidewalk for anyone to read. Where they live, what they do, their ages, cup size. Everything! Any psychopath could walk by and learn everything he needed to know about those two morons. Don’t they own a computer? Everyone knows that BlogChalking is a way for Bloggers to find other Bloggers in the same geographical location as themselves. It’s for the web, not the sidewalk. How the hell did they find out about BlogChalking if they aren’t on the web? They’re so freaking stupid!”
Jen feels differently.
“It’s people like that who make me just want to BlogChalk even more. If they only took the time to learn the facts they’d know that BlogChalking can help the starving children in Pakistan.” When asked where Pakistan was on a map Jen replied, “I think it’s somewhere in Ohio. Or maybe Oregon.”
Ignoring the hecklers on the street, Suzi and Jen BlogChalk until all their chalk is gone.
“We don’t really mind all these people making fun of us.” Claims Suzi. “We know that BlogChalking is, like, the only way to help all the families who have lost their homes to the floods in China. And one day, all these people will want to BlogChalk with us to help them and, you know, all the poor, defenseless animals in pharmaceutical science labs, too. Jen and I always join movements and causes at school right when they go out of favor, but not this time. This time we’re, like, first and stuff, so when all these other people want to join, Jen and I will be, like, the president and vice president of the BlogChalk Movement. That’ll be cool.”
Jen adds, “We’re going to BlogChalk until Palestine and Israel make peace because, really, isn’t that what BlogChalking is all about?”
PhotoBloggery. Take a picture. Write a story. Post the results.
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.