I can totally swear here. Cooool. Fuckers.
And *I* will allow comments. Swear away!
Huh. That's teh weirdness. Anyone else having problems viewing this main page? Like the next post down or so?
I can’t help but notice a shitload of spam in the comments. Shank is asleep at the switch.
Most of you are still using the paul@sanitys-edge email address and that will be dead by tomorrow or Wednesday. Please use the alternative. I would post it here but then I’ll be inundated with offers of cheap hard-on pills and penile enlargement doohickeys, neither of which interests me. If anybody knows how to do that thing with the code where your email address is on the page but in the source it looks like Latin vomit, please speak up and make yourself useful.
For some reason I can’t make a decent Bloody Mary. Either too much Worcestershire or not enough. I guess I’ll have to start actually measuring. I like to use Clamato instead of tomato juice and I add few shrimp so that’s kind of like a meal.
I’m debating going home for lunch and afternoon sex. And a Bloody Mary.
Did you know that Worcestershire sauce has a disputed history? You might also be interested knowing what that shit’s made out of, namely, vinegar, molasses, corn syrup, water, chilli peppers, soy sauce, pepper, tamarinds, anchovies, onions, shallots, cloves and garlic.
Lea & Perrins, the most popular brand also has a secret ingredient that purportedly gives it an extra kick. They’ve kept it a secret since 1837 and they’re pretty serious about it. According to their slow-ass loading web page, only three or four people know what the secret and it’s been broken up so that no one knows the whole recipe and it involves a lot of secret code words. It takes up to two years to make a bottle of Lea & Perrins and their website makes it all seem very romantic.
Tell me this ain’t good blogging.
The Bloody Mary itself has a distinguished history.
It was first mixed at Harry’s American Bar in Paris, a notorious Hemingway hangout. It was originally made with gin because back in the 20s vodka was not a very popular spirit. The originator took the recipe back to New York where hearty Americans insisted it was a pussified French drink and insisted on adding Tabasco.
Many speculate the concoction was named after Mary Tudor, daughter of Henry VIII who killed off just a shitload of her Protestant adversaries and became known as “Bloody Mary.” Others speculate it was named after a Chicago whore. Since I doubt that many 1920s bartenders were acquainted with the history of the House of Tudor, I’d have to go with the whore theory.
Regardless, it’s one hell of a versatile cocktail and I’d like to have me one as soon as possible.
Yeah, I’ve got nothing. And to make matters worse, Shank’s been poking me with a stick, albeit subtly, to make something happen. He’s becoming Col. Parker and I think he’s afraid I’ll die sitting on the toilet like Elvis.
Perhaps I exaggerate. He sent an email saying, “Hey, what’s up?” But I can read between the lines. He’s thinking that fucker hasn’t been producing. Well, I guess I can’t blame him there.
When this type of situation happens in my professional life, I’m full of articulate responses that generate the required effect even if they’re complete bullshit. Allow me to simulate them here:
Well, Shank, I’m glad to see you’re rallying the team, and it’s quite timely on your part, as I’ve just put together a proposal that I believe will push us over the top. One of my research teams has concluded that the font we’re using currently is not only unappealing, but subliminally conjures the image of complete ineptitude on our part. Furthermore, the blog is an odd color. It’s somewhat black and somewhat gray. It’s floating in the netherworld between these two colors. Again, as you’ll see from their upcoming report, the research team found that among men ages 24-36, 84% found the current background color “half-assed.”
Of women polled from the same age group, 73% found the background to be, in their words, “shitty.” How quickly can we get Design and IT into a meeting about this? Because frankly, I’m getting some calls from the top and I’m not sure how long I can pacify them.
That’s what I usually do at work. Here on the blog I can’t really do that. Here, because of my tenuous position, I must write something. If I don't come up with something soon I'll have to start making shit up about other bloggers and post it with feigned indignance.
Who wants to play How Many Beers?
First thing’s first. I added De to the main blogroll, because anybody who writes a post containing the line, "When i'm masturbating the only time i can come is if i have a lint brush stuck in my ass" certainly deserves to be there.
So I hired a guy to do A&R for this website. I only post a few times a week, and I figured it would be nice if I could get someone in here to post as well. But I had standards, the blogger had to be good. The conventional wisdom was that I shouldn't bring on anyone better than me, but I'm lazy; so I was like fuck that, I'll bring on somebody good and I'll be associated with their goodness and people will come to my site. Lots of people, thus feeding the primeval urge of all bloggers: the hungry Sitemeter that lives deep inside of all of us.
So I was contacted by some well established talent looking for a new place to roost. Apparently there were some differences at their previous label, and this candidate was on the prowl as a free agent. I had known this particular blogger from around the way, so I went ahead and pushed the paperwork through legal and got everyone to sign on the dotted line.
I gotta say that there's really going to be something added to Id's Cage by having this particular person on the team. I even thought about changing the name; but the perpetual laziness put a stop to that idea ex post haste.
UPDATE: If you have purposefully not seen Wedding Crashers, I suggest you go to the doctor and get that stick up your ass surgically removed. Probably the funniest film I've seen in two or three years. I'm talking, striaght through, didn't even stop for the plotline funny. I mean, there's a plotline, they just didn't stop the funny for it. Classic.
I bought a new leather belt yesterday, and it's just the tiniest bit stiff, so that the slack end of the belt sticks out from my waist when I wear it. It's somewhat annoying because it'll tap my wrist as I walk, or when I sit down the slack end gets a little fouled. Pretty easy fix, I just taped the slack end to the rest of the belt with a peice of clear scotch tape - very discrete.
So anyways, I just went to the bathroom to take a leak, and I had to take the scotch tape off to unfasten my belt. I try to flick it into the urinal, only to succeed in getting the tape stuck to my forefinger. I try to flick again, and it sticks back to my thumb. I heave an exasperated sigh, and try to roll it into a ball between my thumb and forefinger to reduce the sticky surface area. It's not quite into a ball shape but I try to flick it anyway and it sticks back to my pointer finger. Fuckall! I begin rapidly opening and closing my hand, like flicking with all fingers simultaneously, whipping my hand back at forth at the wrist standing there with my pants undone. I look like I'm strumming a furious air-guitar solo. Or maybe maybe I just look like I'm whacking it.
At any rate, the pesky ball of tape finally flits off, only to stick precariously to the lip of the urinal. I almost decide to leave it there, when I'm struck by an odd moment of ownership and accountability: I should at least flush it. What kind of twat sticks tape to the urinal right? Of course, I'm not touching the damn thing, so I use the sole of my show to kind of scrape it into the urinal bowl. It sticks to my shoe, for the love of CHRIST! I put my foot down, and decide to just piss and deal with this thing when I'm finished.
So I finish up, and now I'm stuck trying to figure out how to get this wad of tape off the bottom of my shoe. I certaintly can't touch it now that it's been on the urinal and the bathroom floor. I consider grabbing some paper towels to pick it off, but trash that idea. If the tape is wet with piss and godknowswhatelse from the bathroom floor, it'll soak right through the paper towels and my fingers'll be covered in the absorbed detritus.
I decide to just rub the sole of my shoe on the tiled floor, in hopes that a little friction will rub the tape off. I rub back and forth a few times, and that doesn't get it. I put all my weight on the toe of my shoe, and being to swing my leg back and forth, scrubbing the sole on the tiles. Dammit! Almost there. I grab a section of wall near the doorless entry to the main bathroom area for leverage, and really begin to rub the shit out of my sole. With some effort, I feel the tape roll out from underneath my toes, vitory! I check the bottom of my shoe and alas, the damn thing is stuck to the very tip of the toe of my shoe. I skim it across the corner of the wall, it falls off, and I stare down at my nemisis.
I figure maybe I should pick it up and throw it out.
Nah, fuck that.
I have always had a fear of the dark. When I was a kid it was pretty intense, but these days it's more entertaining than debilitating.
It was kind of a weird fear feeling. I remember feeling surrounded by the unknown, but also feeling alone if that makes any sense. When I was a kid and I'd go camping or something, I always hated it at night. I'd try to keep myself busy, stick to the firelight and the latern. But the dark spaces between the campsite and the bathroom (if there was one) were always scary. And when there wasn't one, you had to go out into the dark and do your business right there in the thick of the unknown. Sometimes, walking back to the campsite with my little flashlight I could feel something chasing me. Before I knew it, I'd be sprinting through the woods towards the campsite, feeling whatever evil was chasing me right at my heels.
Even as a young adult it freaked me out. I remember one night in college driving along the Blue Ridge parkway with two other buddies, Nick and Russ. We parked at Price Lake and started walking the trail the wound it's way around the lake. We got about halfway back and it started to snow, so we sat and enjoyed the first dusting of the season. When we began our walk back to the car, I made sure to stay in the middle, Russ up front and Nick bringing up the rear. At least I'd have fair warning from either end if something lashed out of the thicket surrounding us and slashed someone's throat. About three quarters of the way back, I turned around laughing about something Russ said, and the guy behind me was gone. Russ didn't even get the words "Where'd Nick go?" out of his mouth before I was bounding full bore through the pitch black. I don't think I'd ever run that fast, and I was doing it in the dark along a trail pitted with large stones, and bulbous roots shooting back and forth across it.
As many politicians know, and historians warn, fear is contagious. It's an airborn virus with so many different strains that if someone displays the right one we all succumb; and that's exactly what Russ did. There we were, two practically grown men tearing ass through woods like a pair of horror movie floozies. We ran flat out all the way back to the truck, hopped in and sat there panting.
"Whered....Nick...."
"....Dunno....but fuck that..."
"Dude....you're such...a..pussy..."
"...Heh....whatever you say....billy badass..."
Then we spotted a light slowly bobbing through the trees near the trail head. We froze.
"Shit."
"Dude, start the friggin engine."
The light kept bobbing towards the end of the forest, I fumbled with the keys, looked up at the whateverthehell that was about to burst through the trees and eat us, slammed the key into the ignition and the car roared to life. I half expected the battery to be dead. I whipped the vehicle around so the headlights were pointing right at the trail head just in time to see Nick come sprinting out of the undergrowth.
"DUDE! Pick him up man!"
"Fuck yeah, get me the hell out of here."
We swung closer to Nick just in time to throw the door open, pull him and and peel the hell out of that place. Nick was in the backseat, panting and trying to say something. Russ and I were in a frenzy, bombarding him with questions: Did you get hacked by an axe murderer? Are you hurt? What the hell?
"Guys, pull over at the next turnout, I think I got bit by something."
I swerved off the road and Russ grabbed a flashlight while Nick clambered out of the backseat.
"Lemme SEE."
"Dude."
"What?"
"BRAAAAAGAGAGSADAAAAAAAAWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!"
"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAA!", I screamed.
Nick doubles over and starts laughing, I'm still screaming like Halle Berry on Oscar night, and Russ is holding his face in his hands, laughing.
Nick had gotten us good. He said while we were busy jibber-jabbering up front, he just ducked into the trees growing close to the trail, and we kept on walking without even noticing he was gone. One of these days I'll get him back. One of these days.
..You forgot to do laundry for like two weeks, and you came home to a pair of socks that were so overgrown with mold or bacterial colonies that they had actually begun evolving into a higher lifeform? That could teach itself the Charleston?
Well, this is what happens to your mind when it stagnates for 71 years. You put together a blog that exemplifies the most disgusting, rude, tactless bits of the human experience.
And it traxfixes the soul. Glad to have you back Bill!
On Friday I got a call from my best friend. He's been in Costa Rica for about six months working on various sustainable development projects; the guy's like a brother to me. Anyways, we had a great weekend did all kinds of cool stuff.
But last night we watched the movies 'Million Dollar Baby' and 'Hotel Rwanda'. After such a great weekend, those movies were the ultimate buzzkill. Honestly, by the time I'd wasted five or six hours of my life watching those flicks; I was ready to go out in the backyard and fall on my sword. What a depressing couple of hours that was. I got up today and it's all rainy, I feel like I should check myself into a crisis center or something.
We decided to ditch out wedding reception plans at the parents house. IT was turning out to be lots of legwork and a real logistics nightmare. So I had to call the DJ back and re-book him. I'm sure he's fully convinced that we are by far the most clueless people he's ever done business with. Instead of doing it at my parent's house to save money, we're going to do the rehersal dinner at their place, pizza and beer most likely; and use the money we save on the rehersal dinner to pay for a better reception. Ah, who am I kidding, we'll probably end up using the extra money as a downpayment on a photographer. I mean, given what these wedding industry types charge, we should be able to work off our indentured servitude sometime shortly after Hillary's first term as President.
The funny thing is both she and I agree that eloping would be superior to planning a wedding like we are. But we talked about it, and decided that the whole point of us wanting to have a wedding is to share it with all the friends and family over the years who've meant anything to us. And if fulfilling that goal means spending lots of money on a big party, then fine. Those mothers better bring some good gifts and fat checks though. For real. No tickee no washee.
The wee little lass is growing into her element. She's growing up and into something as awesome as we ever could've imagined!
On a side note, I think her and Jennifer could have high times. They're both so similar: intelligent, snarky, well read, but not impenetrable. Real people.
Here's to the ladies!
One of the externs came in looking for Carol, the program coordinator. Apparently this poor bastard let her CNA license lapse. Her renewal application needs to be faxed to the state ASAP and she needs the hospital's DFS license number. So this young girl is looking at me all running off at the mouth about "Oh my gawsh! What am I going to do?!" Of course no one else is in the office because it's Friday. I have no fucking clue really what any of the stuff she's spouting means because I'm an analyst, but i decided to help her out, give her a few phone numbers of people to call.
Then she starts wanting me to let her borrow my phone, when there's one in Matt's office that he doesn't even use. I mean, it's like two steps away, and she was using it two minutes ago to call her mommy to bring her lunch or whatever it is that externs use a phone for. Then she starts getting all huffy and melodramatic about "Oh, what ever shall I do?"" and I'm thinking, "Well, for starters you could send your renewal application in before it's overdue, thus avoiding all this panting and using of my office space." I know, I'm an asshole, but don't come into my office asking for my help taking up my fucking time, and then when I try to help you with this situation you got yourself into that I know nothing about, give me the frowns because I can't bail you out. Welcome to the real world, where you pay the consequences for letting this kind of shit happen. This is not college anymore, I'm not running a daycare, and neither are the AA's in this office. I pray thee, get the fuck out.
Then this oldass volunteer comes in. Volunteers are, on a grand scale, slow to the point of having a handicap. That's why they volunteer, because no one would pay their ass to do anydamnthing, becuase it could be done quicker and cheaper by a trained flea circus. Anyways, she wants to know if she can take an inservice to renew her clinical license that probably lapsed sometime after the late pleistocene. She's so freaking old that her mind has gone, because she obviously thinks this is still where Human Resources is located. HR moved across the street two years ago people. Two years, let it go. So she asks her dumbass question and I basically tell her I have no fucking clue how to help her, that maybe she should fucking try HR. Ma'am. She replies as slow as her age-addled mind can muster, "O h, w h e r e t h e o l d g r o c e r y s t o r e u s e d t o b e?" Sure, whatever you say lady. You're two steps away from pushing a shopping cart full of someone else's garbage down the street and mumbling to your imaginary friends. I think it might be a little to late to consider a decision to re-enter the job market. It was the kind of day that just makes you want to slow down, take a deep satisfying breath, count to three, and yell "GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY OFFFFFIIIICE!!"
-------------------
Really, I've got some other posts I want to make, but I want this one to be seen. This rant was written by me in an email to someone when they asked me how my day was going. I mean, it was just one of those days, and they got the whole story. I refined it a little, tried to really make it zing. I'm proud of this one. If I was to ever go head-to-head with Louis Black, this would be the one I'd take with me. I'm no egotist, but God I just love reading it. Those people were so annoying.
You know, I'd rather be dead than be stupid. Stupid people are killing us, literally dragging us down. And I'm not talking about a socially stratified definition of stupid. I mean, I go to fucking grad school with people of all ages that I would consider to be complete fucking morons. And you know who you are!
I know people who know nothing but farming who're smarter than some of the fuckheads I work with. The sad part is that these idiot co-workers of mine think they've earned a place in academia. Fuck. You know, if I wasn't afraid of getting sued, I'd record audio from some of these numbnuts that qualified as graduate students and post it up here for all to see. There's this one fucknut who's got the IQ of a bushel of radishes. He's fucking RETARDED.
His stupidity is so....it... causes me so much stress that I can't think about anything except Gallagher and how much fun he had smashing watermelons with that fucking 20lb mallet. This guy is that big of an IDIOT. And it's not just me; just so you know. There's women old enough to be my mother in this MBA program, and even they express a yearning for the Gallagher mallet. That's when I KNOW you're officially a fucktard; when I'm not the only person who wants you dead.
Really though; the motherfuckin' icing on this shitcake is that this guy got a degree from a nationally recognized university. I'm talking about a college that has a stellar academic and athletic program. If I said the name, you people would be astounded. SLACK-JAWED even. And yet somehow this choad-for-brains managed to graduate and end up polluting MY fucking grad program! Jesus. Jesus fucking Mary and God for fucking saken Joseph. Yes. He is that stupid. Where the fuck do we find these people? Is the state running out of funding so much so that we have to let these retards into the colleges to get state income from their tuition?? STOP THE MADNESS!!!!
So the trip to Georgia was quite that. The place I went to is so small, that I couldn't mapquest it. So I googled it, and discovered that it's consistently mispelled, went back to mapquest and was able to locate it under its mispelled name. Ha!
The town has a population of 402, and no traffic lights. I take that back - there's a blinking yellow light somewhere on the main state road running through town. There's one store (a quick mart of some type), an elementary school, and a Methodist church. That's it man - nothing else. I have no fucking clue what those 402 people do to support themselves because there's no mechanics, repairmen, tradesmen, shops, retailers, industry, or any goddamn thing there. I figure they must take welfare checks or something.
Couldn't get cellphone reception out there either. Not that I was expecting a call or anything, but with that fucking dusche running around TV asking "Can ya hear me now? How 'bout now?", acting like you can get cell reception all over the place; you'd think they'd be able to follow through. If I ever see that prick out and about I'm shoving that phone in his ass and shouting "How 'bout now bitch!"
Pumped my great uncle for info on the war. Not interested necesarily in the history, just think primary sources are absolutley amazing. And for a guy who's eighty some-odd years old, that mofo can ratchet-jaw all day long. I mean, I asked him about the war, and three hours later I came out of my trance and he was still talking about how he and his buddies would weasel out of 20-mile radius vacation leave.
And just in case someone is planning to make Screven County, Georgia a vacation destination anytime soon I have a few pieces of advice. Firstly, bring something to do, because there ain't jack shit to do unless you enjoy watching grass grow. I mean, even if you wanted to do something, you couldn't because you're so far away from everything that it would take you five hours just to drive somewhere where there was something to do. Second, bring bug spray. And by that I mean call Orkin and have them hook you up with whatever they have in the way of immunizations, because the mosquitoes are so damn big they can screw chickens standing flat-footed. I saw the shit, but couldn't get the digicam in time.
And finally, I need to impart some knowledge I gained while on vacation. This is important too, so pay attention. Dogs can eat chocolate. Everyone always says not to let the dog eat chocolate because apparently it makes their hearts explode or some shit. This weekend, my cousin's lab mix knocked a two-layer double chocolate cake off the buffet table, and ate more than half of that son of a bitch. That dog ate more cake than I could eat in one sitting, and took it like a champ. Fuck, I bet there's a majority of people out there that couldn't eat as much chocolate as this dog did without getting sick. The fucker didn't barf, moan, or anything. Matter of fact, I think she took a nap. We weren't even in the house when she did it, so she had the opportunity to eat as much of that cake as she possibly could. Amazing.
Driving down to Georgia for the 4th. My grandmother grew up in a tiny farmhouse in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere near the South Carolina border. When her mom died, her brother kept the house. About ten years ago, my dad's cousin bought the house right next to it. We've been having 4th of July get togethers there for longer than I or my parents have been alive.
It's an abnormal place. The town is too small for a traffic light, a grocery store, or even a McDonald's; but it has it's own cemetery. The forecast is mid 90's and humid, with a 20-30% chance of a thunderstorm everyday. There's not much to do in the modern sense of the phrase; but I do plan on seeing if I can milk a few odd stories from some of the old folks.
I like old people. They're the best kind of historians - primary sources with personal bias.
We've got to drive through South Carolina, the Mecca of imported explosives, to get there. I plan on spending a good one or two hundred bucks on the good stuff that's illegal at home and in Georgia. Hey, blowing stuff up is a human past time. Thinking of taking the camera along and doing some kind of montage when I get back. Huzzah bitches!
This meme is too damn good. Thanks to Jim at Snoozebutton for bringing it to my attnetion.
1) Has your father the cheerfulness which is known you?
I was born a poor black child...
3) It is many the dog and the cat it spreads out how, it has?
I'm pretty sure that's illegal though.
4) How many licks it adopts obtains to the tootsie popular music center?
Actually, I prefer a slurpee when someone's going downtown.
5)If I enter mine pinky finger you in the mother, hoped I arrive exhaust together with the thunderclap sound?
My mechanic friend actually thinks it's the cylinder walls, but I gotta say you need to get the plugs checked friend.
How it works:
1) When you post this on your blog get rid of the first question, bump up all the numbers and make a new question for #5. In other words, you are going to be answering your own question #5 and not answering my question #1.
2) You make a new question by writing it in English, translating it to a foreign tongue, and then translating it back to English. Don't tell anybody what the actual original question was.
3) Trackback to this post or return here to make a comment and let me know where you are because I'm keen on seeing what y'all come up with.
4) Make sure to trackback/comment to the person you snagged this from too because they're going to want to see how you answer their question #5. Responses to the Engrish questions are hillarious when you know what the original English was.
Talk about you're pooping on high. Damn. Those people must've really wanted som solitude.
I can't drop a deuce in any of the bathrooms at work except the one on the topmost floor.
The other bathrooms see lots of traffic; I can't concentrate or relax enough in that kind of environment to get comfortable enough to drop trow. I don't know if anyone of you out there has ever had to take a hurried shit, but they suck. There's nothing worse than being in a pressurized situation, having to coax a stubborn log out of your bum. It's the worst ever. So I can't use these bathrooms that have constant people going in and out.
The other bathrooms are much dirtier than the top floor units too. I think that's probably mostly due to the traffic thing; but they're also a little newer. And the ones on the top floor are the most spacious; with these big windows that look down over the city. A man can really relax and get some shitting done in there. It's peaceful. And that's what I need out of a good bathroom. Tranquility.
Many thanks to Dave (Oorgo.mu.nu) for cleaning up this goddamn dustbin. I'll keep you on as an author Oorg, so just come and go as you please.
Spent the weekend trying to surf the six foot swells rolling in. There's nothing like getting up early to go to the beach and getting slammed for a few hours. It was quite possibly the hardest paddle I've had to do in a while. I mean, the current around here gets bad in late summer, but the breakers were nuts this weekend. It was more of a workout than anything else. It's one of those lessons that we all need to be reminded of though. Sometimes, no matter how strong you think you are or how great your experience base may be; ther'es nothing you can do but just go with the flow. I ended up paddling out in the rip current and then across to find my place in the lineup.
Father's Day is coming up. My immediate family is a big deal to me. I don't say it to them that often because we're not that kind of family, but they're awesome. Some of my extended relatives are more of a standing joke to us, but my parents and brothers and sisters are awesome. If you fuck with them bitch, you're gonna get it; and I'mma be the one givin' it to ya.
Came home from work. Drank beers. Fucked with website. G/f came home. Drove to beach. Water, surfing, beer, came home. Shower, beer, grilling steaks and twice baked potatoes.
Life is good.
and now when you click on the permalink it gives a 404 not found message. I fucking hate computers.
You know, I do have some redeemable qualities though, I swear. Just ask Paul. I'm good with anything that runs on gasoline and has four wheels. I've helped him out on some car-related issues. I like doing that kind of shit. There's something about a machine so precise that makes it easy to understand and manipulate. There are a series of inputs, some physical and environmental constriants, and these produce a series of outputs. You can change the inputs and constraites to produce all kinds of outputs from one engine platform. It's fugging awesome right?
I'm also a great outside the box thinker. And by great I mean, if someone at work presents a problem to me, I can come up with at least two viable solutions within the first minute or so. Give me a day to think about it, and I'll have some more, give me a week, and I'll have a flow chart for a completely integratable process that will not only solve the problem at hand, but grow and expand as needed. It's just the way I am. My old man says I should've been an engineer; somedays I think he's right (uh-gan); and sometimes I notice there's a lot of engineering that goes on in business that people ignore.
Another thing I'm good at is making people laugh. Seriously, it goes over much better in person, I promise. If I didn't know how to make people laugh, I probably never would have gotten laid or gotten a real job. So yeah, thank god for that.
But web editing? Nope. Definitely suck there.
Okay whew, blogging sucks man. If you people knew the trouble I went to just to please you. I talked to Oorgo about getting this place all situated and pretty looking. he was great help, so I just tried cutting and pasting some templates right? I forgot the key fundamental - I shouldn't be allowed anywhere near a web editor because I'm a complete FUCKTARD.
So after like an hour of displaying gabrled
Still haven't figured out how to get a blogroll going. This is really labor intesive dammit. I already have a million other things to do. I wish I could just blog away without having to worry about all this crap.
Update, how do I catgeorize shit on the sidebar? I've already set up a few categories, and clicked it to archive by category, but they won't show up. Moveable type? More like Doodooable HYPE. Well, that and I'm a retard.
If the formatting around here is going nuts for the next few days, it's not that I'm still moving in, it's just that you've finally lost your mind.
Here's a meme for that ass:
1. Total Number of Books I’ve Owned:
Hahaha, aside from text books, auto shop manuals, or other reference material? Hmmmm..Let's see, four...12...carry the 3...would bring us to a grand total of five:
The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton, Adrift by Steven Callahan (great story written by the man who spent the most time alone at sea and survived. He designs life rafts now. How intuitive.), two Thoreau's and an Emerson. It's not that I don't own many books, it's just that most of them are rather utilitarian; that is to say - the only reason I ever read them is because it is neccesary.
2. Last Book I Bought:
Jesus, it was probably one of the myriad 'neccesity' reads; but I did register for an Hemingway anthology for my wedding. I've not read too many of his stories or novels, but I've read about his life. I can't wait to see what his books are like.
3. Last Book I Read:
I did read a shit ton of Dan Brown recently (Angels & Demons, DaVinci Code, Deception Point) because I find the plot lines and pseudo history very intriguing. But that was like last summer. I don't know if I've read any books since then. Mostly I read newsmedia, blogs, short fiction, and reference books.
4. Five Books That Mean a Lot to Me:
I grew up really enjoying The Outsiders. I must have thumbed through that little bastard ten times before I was 15. It's the first book I ever truly appreciated.
I've always enjoyed religious texts. I have a couple copies of the Bible, A Book of Mormon, and a few others. I love sitting there and reading them together. I think religious texts are some of the most misunderstood novels in the history of great writing.
And I love my Thoreau and Emerson. That's about it really. These handful are the only ones I've read more than once.
5. Tag five people and have them do this on their blog.
Sheeeeeiiit, I tag yo mama lasz ni-eet!