An Open Letter To The Phone Company

• by GeekMan • In Rants •   6

To Whom It May Concern:

Salutations _________, you heartless, incompetent, unfathomably vast, leviathan of a phone company. I am a customer who has become so angry at your entire organization, and your laughingly incompetent customer service in particular, that I’m now forced to give you the written equivalent of a Tonya Harding baseball bat to the knees.

My name is ___________ and I hate you.

I’m fully aware that you are such a colossally monstrous entity that, in all likelihood, you have no idea who I am or why I hate you. Please bear with me a little longer and I will try my best to explain using small words so that even your CEO will comprehend my meaning.

Should he come across a word he doesn’t understand I’m sure he can look it up on his Speak-N-Spell.

Being the cynic that I am, I really don’t believe that this letter will ever be read by an actual human being. However, should a living, breathing person within your company somehow find this letter in their hands, I can only pray that they will have the intelligence and insight to bring it to the attention of someone with the power to actually do something about it.

However, seeing as how most of your employees have the intelligence of a parakeet with a brain tumor, my hopes are not high.

Let me state now for the record that if someone does read this and decides that the answer to the problem is to send me an automated response of the “We’re sorry for the inconvenience and thank you for bringing your problem(s) to our attention” variety, then please don’t bother wasting your stamp or my time. Such a form letter will only serve to further incite me and someone might get hurt.

And no one wants that, now do we?

First, let’s start with the extra phone line I had installed in my home office over 4 years ago, which is used solely for connecting to the internet. If you were to say my internet connection was sub-par in performance that would be an understatement of massive proportions. I am running a home business which relies on a solid, fast and clean connection to the internet at all times and yet, my phone line is so weak, slow and dirty that it performs like an 80 year old street walker with osteoporosis.

You want some proof? I’m glad you asked.

Here is a screen shot of the absolute BEST performing internet connection I have been able to receive in my four and a half years of living with this phone line. Keep in mind that my usual connection is HALF this.

Can you believe this?

The above connection speeds are regardless of computer, modem type or time of day the connection is attempted. Now, I grant you a 26k connection was fast in its day, that day being sometime in the internets Mesozoic era, but in today’s world such speeds are simply unacceptable. Surfing the web under these conditions is the equivalent of watching a Hollywood blockbuster movie using a tiny, 12” diagonal, black and white TV.

Suggestion #1: Take your heads out of your collective asses and embrace the 21st century.

When I call customer services to seek a remedy for my anemic internet connection, I am told that as long as I can make a connection of any kind your company has fulfilled its contractual obligation to me. I am further informed, in the manner of a frustrated owner scolding a mentally handicapped puppy, that if I wish to have a faster connection I should speak with the DSL division and stop tying up the phone lines with my petty complaints.

Suggestion #2: All customer service reps who fail to treat your customers with courteously and respect should be publicly flogged with a fiber optic lash and then fed to starving, rabid llamas.

After being transferred to the DSL division and waiting on hold for no less than 40 minutes, I am told that I cannot possibly have a DSL connection. When I ask why, I am shocked to be given an answer that defies comprehension. Apparently, someone has a T1 connection further up the pipe from me and your ‘technicians’ are unable and/or unwilling to work around it. Therefore, my entire neighborhood is out of luck when it comes to DSL.

Suggestion #3: Teach your ‘technicians’ how to do technical things, like splice wires and create crossover patches.

My home phone, which is the one I use to actually make phone calls with, is just as bad. Whenever I use my cordless phone to make or receive a call I am assaulted to the point of bleeding from my ears by a cacophony of pops, whistles, shrieks and clicks. This aural beat-down can also be heard by the caller on incoming calls and most of the time they get so frustrated that they simply hang up.

I don’t know how much business I may have lost due to my inability to simply answer my phone.

I have had the pleasure of demonstrating this behavior to several of your reps on many different occasions. After confirming the effect their solution was both simple and awe inspiring. In every case they suggested I discontinue use of my cordless phone and buy a ‘regular’ corded handset.

Suggestion #4: If the customer has a valid complaint of sub par performance on your part, fix the goddamn problem. Do not shift the blame to someone or something else simply because it’s easier than doing something constructive.

I could continue, but why bother? I doubt that you will ever change, except for the worse, because you are a local monopoly and have become drunk with your power and influence. Being a ‘little guy’ I have no other phone company to which to turn and find comfort. And even should I switch local carriers, the physical lines are still yours and therefore subject to your control. I am thus forced to remain in the deathlike grip of your organizations fat, callous, coldhearted and unsympathetic hands while my bank account withers on the vine and my business slowly dies.

I hope you’re happy.

For all the above reasons and many more besides I feel that I cannot possibly understate my displeasure in your organization’s service and support. Other than this letter, I don’t know of a better way to inform you of just how bitter, angry, frustrated and upset I am with a corporate structure which allows for such an utter lack of anything resembling customer satisfaction. If you were a schoolyard bully I would wish a pox upon you and your entire, extended family.

My name is ___________ and I hate you.

Sincerely,

Elevator Fun

• by GeekMan • In Geek Life •   14

Overheard elevator conversation of the day. Not embellished in the slightest and it was so funny I nearly died.

*elevator doors open and we find a boy and a girl having a discussion. GeekMan enters*

Girl: “Well, one time I accidentally put a staple through my finger.”

Boy: “Really?”

Girl: “Uh-huh. I was really young and thought staples only worked on paper. You know, like kiddy-scissors? And I wanted to know how the staples came out of the thing, so…”

Boy: “So, you stapled your finger?”

Girl: “Mmmm-hmmm. Right through the nail.”

Boy: “Day-uhm! That must have hurt.”

Girl: “Like you never did anything stupid as a kid.”

Boy: “…”

Girl: “What?”

Boy: “When I was a kid I thought it would be really funny if my sister tried to go to the bathroom and couldn’t get her underwear off, so I snuck up behind her and…”

*staple motion*

Girl: “No! You didn’t!”

Boy: “Yep. In my defense, I honestly didn’t think it would hurt her. I just wanted to staple them to her butt and laugh when she tried to go pee. I think it was one of those drywall staplers, too.”

*laughter*

Girl: “You know…”

Boy: “Yeah, I know. I should have crazy glued them to her ass!”

*intense, maniacal laughter*

*girl farts loudly*

*intense, embarrassed, maniacal laughter*

*girl farts again*

*elevator dings for GeekMan’s stop. He gets off, turns around and speaks*

GeekMan: “You know, if you keep farting like that someone’s liable to staple your ass shut.”

*boy falls to elevator floor in convulsions, girls face turns redder than the sun and the elevator doors close*

Day-uhm, but that was funny.

The Last Bike Story

• by GeekMan • In Childhood Memories •   6

One day, when I was in my early teens, my brother was gifted with a brand new skateboard. I was on my third or fourth bike by this time and if my memory serves it was a Huffy. My brother, Mr. Hentai and I went out to the street to try out the new skateboard by doing as many dangerous, wacky and idiotic things 13 year old boys are want to do when given a new toy and no adult supervision. I brought my bike just so I would have something to do when it wasn’t my turn to attempt breaking my tailbone on the skateboard.

We were like the Three Musketeers, only crazier.

Oh, just in case you didn’t already guess, none of us knew how to ride a skateboard so we were doing far more falling down than standing up. Add to this that we were doing our skateboarding experimentation in the middle of a fairly busy one-way street and perhaps you’ll begin to understand the danger we were needlessly and unknowingly putting ourselves into. Also, keep in mind that we had no safety equipment whatsoever, since at that time no one even knew what safety equipment was. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, because no self respecting 13 year old boy in my neighborhood would have dared wear that safety stuff because they wouldn’t want to be seen as a ‘sissy’ by the neighborhood bully.

Oh look, widdle, baby GeekMan’s wearing a helmut. Did your momma wipe your ass for you this morning, too? Oooooo. You gonna cry now? Are you gonna run home to mamma and cry? That’s right! Run, sissy-girl. RUN!

Anywaste, luckily for us very few cars came down our street that day, so we didn’t need to worry about becoming road kill. In fact, I don’t remember any cars passing us while we were rambunctiously flinging ourselves down the street on a thin piece of wood supported by four casters and no breaking mechanism other than hitting one of the cars parked along the street and praying we didn’t set off one of those newfangled car alarms. We only set car alarms off late at night when we could fully enjoy watching a fat, angry man come outside in his pj’s, cursing a blue streak, start his car, turn off the alarm and go back to his apartment swearing to catch the ‘fracking kids’ in the morning.

We’d wait 15 minutes and then set it off again. FUN!

Back to our story, at some point Mr. Hentai got the bright idea of combining the speed of my bike with the thrill of riding a skateboard. He decided to try riding the skateboard while hanging onto the back of my bike and I would then peddle as fast as I could and, should he maintain his grip, speedy thrills would ensue. This sounded like a fabulous idea to all of us and without further discussion, we set about making the unreal, real. Mr. Hentai stood on the skateboard, grabbed the back of my bike seat and I took off.

We laughed at the thrill of it all.

Mr. Hentai, unsatisfied with merely hanging on to my bike, began to slalom on the board. That is, he began a vigorous left-to-right-to-left motion on the skateboard behind me which had the unintentional effect of making my bike fishtail. One moment, we’re setting a two-man, bike/skateboard land speed record and the next I’m out of control and headed towards one of the parked cars. At full speed.

If you are male, stop reading now.

If you are still reading this, let me describe exactly what happened during this crash so that you’ll fully understand how painful this was for me. My front tire hit the car on the front passenger-side door, which promptly ejected me from my bike seat face-first into the car window. I remember this vividly, because the rest of the crash unfolded for me in the passengers mirror with the words ‘objects in mirror may appear closer than they are’ emblazoned along the bottom of my sight like the TV captions on Saturday Afternoon Kung-Fu Movies. My forehead smacked the window with such force that my eyes nearly flew from their sockets as if I was one of those dolls whose eyes pop out when squeezed.

Inanimate Objects – 1

GeekMan – 0

Having hit the car, my body began to fall backwards towards the ground but something interfered with the normal gravitational pull of the earth on my body, my bike. You see, my bike’s momentum had made it flip forward, but as I have already mentioned, due to my body having met the door of a car the bike had nowhere to go but directly into my scrotum. The bike seat attempted to invade my groin as if it were reenacting Germany’s invasion of France during WWII in the span of 1/1000 of a second.

Hard and fast, like a jackhammer on soft clay. It makes me wince just thinking about it now.

Of course, having expelled all of its energies and momentum into the soft flesh of my gonads, the bike promptly fell back to the ground. My body was of course forced forward again by this cowardly attack on my manhood, and my face once again met the window of the car.

Inanimate Objects – 3

GeekMan – 0

My body, now sending flashes of blinding pain to my brain as if to say, “Attention. You may want to avoid doing this in the future.” Began to fall back to the ground. Of course, rubber wheels on bikes make them slightly ‘bouncy’ so as I was falling down, the bike was once again coming up. My gonads and bike seat met in what would have been a lovers embrace had the situation not been so painfully non-embracing. I swear to you, I actually thought every single sperm in my body screamed in terror as they saw the bike seat heading towards them again.

It was like my ‘nads were Tokyo and the bike seat was Godzilla.

Well, to make this narration a little shorter, and to avoid reliving this as it is beginning to cause me actual physical pain, allow me to give you the final score.

Inanimate Objects – 9

GeekMan – 0

My brother and Mr. Hentai laughed like hyenas as I walked, splay-legged, into the building. Managing to maneuver the four short steps to the elevator without falling down was the bravest thing I’d ever done in my life. When I got upstairs my mother asked if I was alright and somehow, I don’t know how exactly, I managed to say I was fine and just needed to use the bathroom. When I got in the bathroom, I removed my pants as carefully as I could and that’s when I saw the blood.

I remember thinking, “Oh. Blood. That’s not a good sign.”

I was still receiving waves of rolling pains that began in my groin and expanded outwards to my brain, so I just sat there for a while and cleaned off the blood with toilet tissue. After sitting in the bathroom for 10 minutes or so, the pain was almost bearable and the bleeding had stopped completely. Using the bathroom mirror, I didn’t even see a cut, so I figured I would be fine as long as I took it easy for a few days. I never mentioned this accident to my mother because I wouldn’t have been able to show her my ‘boo-boo’ and if we had gone to the hospital I would have died of shame and embarrassment.

On the spot. Dead, just like that.

After this event, I decided that riding bikes was not really for me. I took it as a sign from above that my future did not involve any two wheeled mode of transportation in any way and I decided walking would do fine until I was old enough to have a car. I’ve ridden on bikes only 5 times since then and let me tell you, my groin and I are on very good speaking terms. Very good speaking terms, indeed.

Now, you tell me. Should someone like me be allowed to buy one of those Segway thingies?

The Bike Of Blue Death

• by GeekMan • In Childhood Memories •   5

A few months after I finally learned how to ride a bike without training wheels, my bike was stolen. I was so sad that it got stolen I believe I kicked a mailbox and maybe even cursed the sky. Well, losing a bike is one of the perils of living in the big, bad city I guess. Even though I loved that bike, it was gone now and I had to find a way to get another or I would be forced to bum rides on the handlebars of my friends. So I did what every kid in the world does when they want something they know they have no right to have and no means to acquire.

I pestered my mom, day and night, until she caved in.

My new bike was a real beauty. It was cool blue, sleek and damn sexy, but not in a girly-sexy way. In fact, forget what I just said. It wasn’t sexy at all, it was cool. Manly-cool, like Batman Underoos or the Millenium Falcon. Just because it had multicolored streamers hanging from the handlebars and metallic sky-blue paint didn’t mean my bike was for girls. So Daid K., wherever you are, you’re still a poopy-head and my Alchemist Smurf could soooo kick your Smurferman’s ass.

Now, where was I? Oh yeah, sorry.

I don’t know if bikes today work the way my bike did, but my bike had no handbrakes. In order to stop, I had to press backward on the pedals which would stop my forward motion and bring my bike to a halt. One fun side effect of such a braking method was the almost immediate discovery that one could ‘Skid Out’. Skidding out, for those who don’t know, meant riding as fast as you could and then hitting the brakes while turning the bike almost on its side and sliding to a halt. The longer the slide before the stop, the better the Skid Out.

I was a Master Skid Out Artist.

One day I was practicing my skidding technique outside on the street when something ‘bad’ happened. Back and forth, up and down the block I would go, tearing up the street and skidding out to my heart’s delight. I was going faster and faster and faster, having bigger and bigger Skid Outs, until suddenly and without warning something went wrong. To this day I don’t know what it was, but as soon as it began I clearly remember thinking to myself, “Oh, this is going to be bad.”

No, really. I did.

You know how the pedals on bikes have little teeth on them to help keep your feet from slipping off? Well, in spite of those teeth, my left foot slipped off and hit the ground in front of the bike. The pedal, blissfully unaware that my foot had fallen from its rightful place, continued on in its revolution and came down on my calf like a hot knife on a stick of room temperature butter. Keep in mind that the pedals have teeth.

Sharp, pointy teeth.

The pedal tore through my pants, ripped apart my sock like tissue paper and bit into my leg like a rabid wolf bringing down a sickly deer. The pain was immediate and blinding. I fell down and did the sucking-of-air-through-teeth thing that everone does when they’re trying really, really hard not to scream/weep in agonizing pain. Had I been going any faster, I’m sure I would have severed my own Achilles tendon, but luckily all I did was rip the back of my leg to shreds.

I’m proud to say that I did not cry.

Somehow, I not only managed to hobble home, but to also drag the bike along with me. After all of the expected hysterics had died down and we had come back from the hospital, I had a moment alone to reflect on my day. It was then, and only then, that I allowed myself to ask the question that’s probably running through your head right now. Would I have a scar? Not just any scar, but a cool scar to show off to all the hotties at school and maybe get some ‘play’? Could this tragic accident somehow lead to an increase in my cool factor and finally get Stacy V. to notice me as more than ‘The Dork With Cooties’? Would she touch my leg in class, or my arm at lunch like she did to James? Would she (gulp) kiss me?

My testicles dropped that night and by morning I had not one, but three pubes.

Sadly, my lusted after tryst with Stacy never happened. My damn body wouldn’t let me off that easy and it healed completely, with no visible scars, probably just to spite me in my vain attempt to become cool and get some sweet-lovin’ from the fly honeys in school. Since I didn’t have anything to show for my pain, I didn’t get any cool points for my accident from anybody, not even my closest friends. The cute girls continued to avoid me like the plague and flock to my brother like bees to honey.

No, I’m not bitter at all.

To this day, if I flex my calf you can feel the lump of scar tissue under the skin that is the only reminder of my last day as a Master Skid Out Artist. A few months after my accident, the Bike of Blue Death was also stolen and I was not at all sad to see it go.

Stupid, stupid bike.

Learning To Ride

• by GeekMan • In Childhood Memories •   3

This week is all about bikes and pain.

When I was a young boy I had a fabulous pedal-powered dirt bike. It was a specific type of bike known as a ‘Chopper’ that I don’t believe is made anymore. It had a low-rider type seat and three gears (speeds) to choose from. You chose your gear by shifting a lever that sat directly in front of the seat, between the seat and the handlebars. If you’re a guy, think about that placement for a moment and you might understand why these bikes aren’t made anymore.

Yeah, I know. Ow.

Anywaste, one day my father decided I was too old for training wheels and I should learn how to ride a bike like a real man. Not wanting to disappoint him, I hastily agreed and we removed the wheels, went outside and started to ride. Remember, this was long before such things as safety helmets or elbow pads and we were on the cement sidewalk outside my apartment building next to a very busy street.

I tried to be brave.

After a few minutes of trial and error, my father had the bright idea of holding onto the back of my seat and running alongside me while I got the hang of balancing myself without training wheels. At first we went slow and my dad did most of the balancing for me, but after a few tries I was getting better. My confidence on the rise, I asked my dad if we could go a little faster.

The twinkle in his eye should have been my first warning.

He held onto the back of the bike this time, so he could keep up, or so he said. I started pedaling as fast as I dared and for the first time in my life, I felt like I was really riding a bike without any help. I yelled back to my father, “Look at me go dad!”

From far behind me I heard my father yell, “That’s the way son!”

I laughed out loud and thought how great it was to be riding my bike without training wheels, even if my father was holding onto it so I wouldn’t fall. I was a real man now, I could ride my bike for real! I was so proud of myself. Maybe next time I’d try riding without my father holding on to me. Maybe I…

Wait a second.

Stealing a quick glance backwards, I saw my father standing about 50 feet behind me, smiling like a merciless inquisitor in a medieval torture chamber about to hear a ‘confession’. Looking forwards again, I saw the end of the block coming up fast. Suddenly, I didn’t know what to do. In my head, I knew that I should stop or scream or something, but I just couldn’t seem to remember how.

I also conveniently forgot how to steer.

I was coming fast to the end of the block. On the end of the block, directly in my path, there stood a lamppost. Of course, I was headed straight for the hard, painful looking, steel base of said lamppost. At speed.

Face, meet post. Post, this is face.

I don’t remember much of the actual crash, it was a blur of motion, a glimpse of steel, the sound of a large bell quickly followed by the cracking sound of something soft hitting pavement and finally silence. I remember my fathers footsteps as he ran up to where I was lying, unmoving in the street. He looked down at me and I opened my eyes and looked up at him. I opened my mouth and he leaned down to better hear my words.

“Dad?”

“Yes, son?”

“Remind me to kick your ass in twenty years.”

He laughed so hard he had to sit down on the sidewalk next to me and wipe his eyes.

Interview #05

• by GeekMan • In Experiments •   1

It’s time for yet another installment of Blogger Insider. This week’s questions are brought to you by Melanie Kurtz of Goodbye Blue Monday. She’s just started Blogging so show her a little love and visit her site and read her answers to my questions. Now, without further ado, let’s get it on!

  1. Do you regularly have conversations with inanimate objects?

    “I don’t know what you mean. I don’t talk to inanimate objects.”

    “Is that my cue?”

    “Bread, you’re not on until next week. We talked about this remember? Once a week, at most. We don’t want to overuse you.”

    “Hey, I’m the best thing you’ve got going here. Don’t kid yourself bub, without me you’re nuthin.”

    “You arrogant… Hey, is that a cigarette? Get that out of here! You know there’s no smoking in my house. I’m allergic, dammit.”

    “Relax you anal retentive psycho. It’s a menthol.”

    “That doesn’t make a difference and you know it. Just get out of here and take that damn cigarette with you.”

    “Ok, ok. I’m going. I’m just glad you didn’t realize I didn’t take my shoes off when I came in. And I think I might have stepped in something.”

    “AHHHHH!!! You bastard! You know I’m going to be up all night mopping the floor now, don’t you?”

    “I was counting on it, putz.”

    Evil laughter fades as door slams. Manic mopping ensues.

  2. How do you feel about Agent Orange?

    It makes me break out in hives. Or is that cats?

  3. Do you feel that no woman’s worth crawling on the earth?

    Hello, my name is Harold Zimmermann. I’m Mr. GeekMan’s relationship attorney and I’ll be representing him for this particular question. On behalf of my client, the answer to this question is, ‘No comment’. I have instructed my client to refrain from answering this and any other question that may, in my legal opinion, lead to a ruling of ‘no sex’ from Judge HoBiscuit. Should you insist on continuing this line of questioning, I will be forced to instruct my client to plead the fifth, duck and cover, and quickly enter the witness relocation program. And we’re much better at hiding than those morons over at Enron.

  4. In the highly unlikely case that you got insulted, would you ever respond by saying “Well, I have a Bloggie and you don’t! MUAHAHA!”?

    (muahaha being evil laughter)

    Of course! I love using that line, evil laugh included, in all sorts of social situations. When the line at the shelter is long and I’m especially hungry, I just yell out, “Anti-Bloggie Award winner here! Make a hole! Coming through!” And the line magically disappears. My award has even helped me make new friends. Before I won the award no one would talk to me, but now when I show it to people they love to tell me things. They give me suggestions on where I can put my award, or what I can do with myself when I’m alone and bored, but so far I haven’t tried any of them. Truthfully, I think it would hurt, but since so many people recommend putting my award in there, I guess I should give it a try. People are so nice.

  5. Which was your favorite Star Trek series and why?

    I never really got into Star Trek. By the time I ‘discovered’ it I was already infatuated with the greatest sci-fi program on TV at the time, Battlestar Galactica. You show me someone who didn’t love BG and I’ll show you someone with far more taste and culture than should ever be allotted by nature. In order to preserve the human race as we know it, we would need to hunt them down and give them a frontal lobotomy by sticking a straw through their left eye and letting their brains drain out. We would then make them late-night infomercial hosts on public television.

  6. Out of hearts, solitaire, and minesweeper, which are you most likely to get addicted to?

    Hearts give me gas and sweeping for mines seems like a dangerous profession. Since I’m often in solitary confinement I guess I should choose solitaire, but I’d have to make the cards by slowly skinning myself and using my own blood as ink. Wanna play canasta?

  7. What was the first concert you went to?

    Good question. The first concert I saw live was Brian Adams and I’m still waiting for a formal apology from Canada. In fact, I have a session with my therapist in half an hour where I’ll try to expel this ancient anger by singing ‘Summer of 69’ at the top of my lungs and beating myself with a pillowcase filled with copies of Robin Hood starring Kevin Costner.

  8. Would you rather be a nerd, dork, or loser? (geek is not an option)

    Nice, real nice. In case you didn’t know already, I’m a loser. A tall, skinny, stupid loser. Thanks for bringing that up. No, no. Don’t bother apologizing, it’s far too late now. Would you like to rub salt or lemon juice into my open wounds? Oh, I see. You prefer ground glass. Typical.

  9. What is your favorite winter Olympics sport?

    Curling. Just because it’s so… un-Olympic.

  10. What is the crowning focal point of your home?

    The VEHTS, of course.

  11. If you wake up and see that it is cloudy, does this have any particular impact on your day?

    It has a huge impact! It means that I’ll probably have to bring an umbrella and wear a raincoat. I’ll probably also get wet when a taxi splashes a puddle on me when it runs a red light, which would really stink because I most likely have an important meeting to attend with big, important clients and if I’m wet then I’ll look all shlumpy. Clients don’t respect you when you’re shlumpy, which would mean I wouldn’t get the job, which would mean I’d have to go home empty handed. Of course, not working means I wouldn’t get paid which would mean I couldn’t pay my rent and I’d be evicted from my apartment. Then I’d be living on the street begging for spare change and digging through a McDonalds dumpster for my dinner, which won’t even have a happy meal prize, unless you count a dead rat with a missing foot a prize. And of course, it would be raining.

  12. *BONUS* The following is entirely for my own research purposes. Do with it what you will. What’s your favorite kind of pizza?

    Brooklyn pizza. What, you want more? OK, how about hot Brooklyn pizza? More? With pepperoni. Lots and lots of pepperoni. Damn, now I’m hungry.

Does anyone else aside from me think I really need an intervention?

A Message For One.

• by GeekMan • In HoBiscuit •   1

We all think we know love.

We love things, like cars, motorcycles, boats and planes. We love hats, shoes, shirts and comforters. We love roller coasters, video games, two-ply toilet tissue and ballpoint pens that can write in zero gravity. We love toys that light up, make noise, need batteries or require some assembly.

We love technology.

We love electricity, indoor plumbing, central air-conditioning and double-sided, high-density DVDs. We love computers, cell phones, the internet and paper clips. We love dishwashers, remote controls, robotic dogs and 5 mega pixel, auto focus, 3x-zoom digital cameras.

We love the arts.

We love music, movies, books and television. We love creating, discovering, inventing and becoming inspired. We love color, typography, design, and concepts. We love to sing badly in the shower, write wretched poetry on public bathroom stalls and tell horrible jokes in polite company.

We love activity.

We love going out, staying home, being with friends and spending time alone. We love fitting in, being different, starting a trend and standing on our own. We love engaging our senses, disconnecting from the world, becoming immersed in the moment and stepping back to observe.

We love time.

We love being young at heart as we grow wise with age. We love holidays, vacations, weekends and birthdays. We love then, and now, and our memories and dreams. We love what was, what is and what we hope will be.

But do we really know what it means to love someone?

We all use the word love so many times during the day that we might forget at times the true meaning of love. Is it fair to tell the one you profess to love that they are only as important to you as the latest hit song on the radio? Or that you love them as much as your favorite food or childhood toy?

Do you want to be loved that way?

This day, Valentines Day, should not be about cards, or gifts or candy. It should not be about getting the biggest stuffed animal or sending the most roses to your significant others office to make their officemates jealous. Do you think buying a Hallmark card and a dozen roses will really win someone’s everlasting affection? Do you truly believe that those things, those silly, quickly discarded physical things really matter? Is that all love is to you?

That is not love to me.

Love to me is a smile that makes you want to break out in song and dance. Love is waking up next to someone and lying there, trying not to disturb their sleep, just so you can listen to their breathing for a little while longer. Love is feeling safe and warm just by hearing a voice on the phone. Love is doing what’s best for someone else, even when it’s not best for you. Love is sacrifice. Love is bliss. Love is power. Love is pain. Love is heaven. Love is hell.

Love is everything.

My girlfriend means more to me than I can ever fully express to anyone, either in words or actions. I try day and night to show her how much she means to me, but if I lived a thousand lifetimes I would remain unable to fully express my devotion to her. After days of searching for some other way to show her my feelings, I have come back to the only way I know of that might come close to expressing how I feel. What I am going to say is an overused, commercialized, and pathetically unoriginal phrase, but I can only hope and pray she will somehow grasp a small, tiny fraction of the sentiment behind the words. I say it here on my website for the whole world to see only because I say it so often when I’m with her that hearing the words from my lips might not be taken seriously anymore. When she reads this, I want her to understand that I know the meaning of the words and the weight they carry. I want her to understand that it is not this silly holiday or peer pressure forcing words from reluctant lips. I know exactly what I’m saying, and it comes from my very soul and with all my heart when I say;

Honey, I love you.

The Return Of Bread

• by GeekMan • In Bread •   8

“Hey Bub, how ya doin?”

I almost dropped my glazed, chocolate donut in surprise at the now familiar voice. Luckily, I managed to stop the donut from sliding to the floor by sacrificing my right hand to the boiling hot water splashing over the lip of my Mighty Geek mug. Some things are worth third-degree burns and months of rehab.

“OW! Dammit Bread, don’t scare me like that!”

“Sorry schmuck, I didn’t know you wuz so jumpy. Did it hurt?”

“Hurt? You smug little… Maybe I should dunk you in this hot cocoa and watch that grin melt off your face.”

“Hey now, bub. No need for threats, I said I was sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

I got a paper towel and cleaned myself off. I was a little annoyed by Bread’s cavalier attitude towards my pain, so I refused to look at him until I was positive he knew I was angry. I mean, he’d been slithering all over the house lately not even bothering to hide his penchant for Butter-Porn, and I was getting tired of all the unsolicited spam-mail I was getting from hotbutter.com. Just as I suspected though, Bread completely ignored my air of disapproval and continued talking as if nothing was wrong.

“So, wassup wit your site?”

“Go away, Bread. You’re not real and I don’t have to listen to you or answer your stupid questions.”

“Yes you do. I’m your inner monologue and the voice of your visitors, so it’s my job to hound you until you give the people what they want.”

“Your thoughts on what people want have no basis in reality, so shut up and leave me alone.”

“Hey, I still think a list of twenty things to do with apricot jam would really reel them in. And just because you have a problem with hot butter porn…”

“You’re crazy.”

“I think the word you meant was ‘brilliant’.”

“I’m not listening to you anymore so go away.”

I sat down at the table and began eating my scrumptious Entenmann’s chocolate donut. I should have known Bread wouldn’t leave me alone, but I guess I thought he would at least let me eat in peace before he bothered me again. I should have known better.

“Are you retarded?”

“Mmmfff? Glormph!!!”

Bread had timed the question perfectly and my hot chocolate burned my throat like lava as I mistakenly tried to answer and swallow at the same time. The skin on the roof of my mouth came off in stringy clumps of boiled flesh and my tongue swelled up to twice its normal size. The pain was intense and my eyes watered in sympathy. Bread just laughed and laughed and laughed. He could be a real jerk sometimes.

“You jerk! That really hurt.”

“Cry me a river, wuss. Just answer the question, are you retarded?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no. I’m not.”

“Are you stupid, or metally impaired?”

“No.”

“Did your momma drop ya when you wuz a kid?

“Don’t you talk about my momma.”

“Or what, jackass? What?”

“Or I’ll…”

“You’ll what, tough guy? Cry? You gonna cry like a little girl? Go ahead, cry like a baby. Cry, you pussy. Cry.”

I just stared at him, hoping that my glare would be so hot as to toast his body and kill him. He just smiled at me, knowing I couldn’t touch him. We both ignored the excess moister in my eyes.

*mumble*

“What?”

“Nothing. Why do want to know if I’m stupid? Which I’m not, by the way.”

“Because you’re not funny anymore. You’ve lost it, whatever ‘it’ was, and your writing lately has been, how should I say this politely, pathetically un-funny.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then what the hell was that last post about?”

“It was a humorous look at how my girlfriend managed to move into my apartment without ever actually moving in. I thought it was really funny.”

“Funny? It was about as funny as a poke in the eye with a branding iron. You just confused the hell outta me and made me want to kick your skinny, hairy ass for ever writing such crap. Next time stick to the stuff you know people want, like stories about how stupid you are.”

“Hey! That’s enough out of you, you slimey, little bastard. I thought it was funny and I bet other people did too.”

“The only person who thinks you’re funny is HoBiscuit and even she needed to call and get clarification about that post. Face it, you’re over the hill, past your prime and as funny as a Just Shoot Me marathon. You might as well throw in the towel, pack your bags and become a tabloid horoscope writer in Des Moines.”

I couldn’t believe how insulting he was being. Here I was, the guy who had given him life on my web site, and all he could do was insult me. My patience with him was wearing thin and my hot cocoa was getting cold. When he started laughing at me I got angry, but the horoscope writer comment was the last straw.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m putting you where you belong.”

“But that’s not where I belong, that’s the toaster.”

“That’s right. Burn, you little prick.”

“No!!! You bastard! I’ll be back, moron! You’ll never be free of me! I’ll get you and your little site too! I’m toasting… I’m toasting… Ayeeeeee!!!“

I set the toaster on high and left him inside. I ignored his screams and sat down at the table to enjoy my cocoa and donut. After ten minutes the screaming stopped and the smell of toast filled the air.

Now, anyone else have a complaint?

Is That Napalm You’re Wearing?

• by GeekMan • In Geek Life •   2

I surrender.

I’ve been vanquished by an overwhelming force of unimaginable power. An invading army of devious demons has been gaining ground, seemingly overnight, without my ever being aware of its presence in my home. I’ve been sleeping soundly at night secure in the safety of my bed, because I always make sure my blanket coveres my entire body which everyone knows means that I can’t be touched by the boogieman. But the boogieman isn’t known for his brains and I never took into account a monster as clever as this one. So I sleep like a baby, dreaming the dreams of a man who believes he is safe. Untouchable. Inviolate.

I was so stupid.

Oh sure, in the beginning I was completely unaware of the invasion. Blissfully ignorant of the creeping danger sneaking into my home I failed to see the warning signs. I never noticed as the enemy probed for weaknesses in my defenses. Reconnaissance teams passed like stealth bombers under my radar defense system and set up command posts at strategic locations throughout my home. My early warning system, installed at great expense by my friends at the Pentagon, was disabled using orange peels, some tinfoil, a Sharpie pen and a stick of sugarless gum.

Damn you Micro$oft.

They laid low for a few weeks, hiding by the bathroom sink and gathering intelligence before they began their covert operations. Slowly they took some ground and ‘liberated’ the medicine cabinet. Silly me, I didn’t realize anything was happening until it was too late. And even then, I merely had an unexplainable feeling of being in danger as I brushed my teeth in the morning. The feeling that a huge, dark force was moving against me. Surrounding me. Smothering my will to live and suppressing my natural instinct for self preservation. It was a feeling not unlike what every man feels while watching a movie starring Helen Hunt or Meg Ryan.

On a rainy afternoon. Without a date.

Soon however, I began to notice my enemy’s movements throughout my home. At first it was just a few small items found scattered here and there within the confines of my bedroom. Then it grew into obvious trails of cast off detritus leading to and from the master bathroom. I called the offices of Bathroom Security and The Bedroom Defense Union, but my contacts had gone missing and their numbers no longer worked. One morning an encoded message from the bookshelf informed me that the alarm clock was a double agent.

It was then that I knew I was in trouble.

Their cover blown, my enemy came out into the open and soon conquered a drawer under my bed. Then another. The campaign escalated quickly and soon they assaulted the entire southwest corner of the bedroom. Gaining ground and momentum with every victory and meeting little to no resistance as they marched onwards, they grew bolder in their activities. Waking up one morning I was shocked to discover that my bathroom floor had formally surrendered during the night and was now completely under enemy control. A puppet regime had been put in place and the old fungal overlords were in hiding somewhere behind the toilet.

The bathtub was conquered that same day without a fight.

Caught by surprise by the ferocity of their advance, I retreated to the hallway, where I draw a line in the floorboards and made the first of many stands against the invaders. I let it be known that I was king and master of my domicile and no one and nothing would come in and take over without a fight. I swore I wouldn’t allow it. I promised no more ground would be lost. I made dire threats. I threw tantrums and stomped my feet.

And when all else failed, I whined and became petulant.

It was a bold move on my part and against any other enemy it would have worked, but by this time my position was hopeless and I was overrun within week. Sensing my imminent defeat, and not wanting to endanger the VEHTS, I raised the white flag. A date was set and the leader of the invading forces and I met at the bargaining table as we drew up the documents for terms of my surrender.

The reign of HoBiscuit the First had begun.

I gave up both drawers under the bed and the corner of my bedroom between the bed and the windows. She got one whole medicine cabinet, a slot for her toothbrush and my agreement not to mention her long hairs on the bathroom floor or clogging the bathtub drain. Ever. She gets as much of the fridge as she needs whenever she needs it, and whichever one of us cooks, I must do the dishes. I am not allowed to throw out her magazines, no matter if they’re 6 months old, and if I even think about throwing out a TV Guide before she reads it I can and will be flogged and then shot at dawn. If she thinks it is cold, then it is cold and I must turn up the heat until such time as she is too hot and I will then turn down the heat until she is cold again, ad nauseam. The Comfy Couch of Super Sleep is hers and if it looks like she’s sleeping, she’s not. She’s just ‘thinking’. She makes the rules, and no matter how silly or contradictory I might think they are, I will follow them. Always.

I get to touch her boobies once a week if she feels like it. Seems fair.

UPDATE

I’ve just received word from the GeekMan Liberation Front that the computer room is putting up a solid defense against the encroaching forces of the HoBiscuit regime. The office message board is all but lost and a suicide bomber took out the 2002 sexy girl calendar, but no other casualties have been reported and the spirits of the people are high.

Viva la résistance!