Archive for March, 2007

I am so happy with the last word in this post.

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Anonymous Coworker
on March 30, 2007 @ 9:12 am
in i am so fucking awesome and school
. 33 Comments

There are two young women in my statistics class. Actually, there are more than two young women. Except for the 4 men (that includes me), the proportion of men to women is .1905. Heh. This statistics stuff is fun.

Anyway, I want to talk about two young women in particular.

The first young woman is Russian. She’s about 22 or 23, she’s got shoulder-length blonde hair, blue eyes, and is generally built like a stereotypical “hot” girl: skinny but with curves, tall, and a disproportionately large chest. She dresses in the latest fashion, and makes sure that people can see her body. She’s also very nice. Whenever I see her outside of class we both usually exchange a wave and a greeting.

The second young woman is of indeterminate origin, i.e. American. She’s about 25 or 26 and she’s got black hair that goes to the middle of her back. She’s also skinny, but she’s not built with curves. She’s more angular. She also has a big-ish nose, and kind of a weird smile. Her clothes frequently look like cast-offs from the nineties. She’s very nice, wicked smart, and funny. Whenever I see her outside of class we usually exchange a wave and a greeting.

The other day they both happened to be walking down the narrow hallway towards our class (they’re not friends, it was just a coincidence), and I was approaching from the other direction.

Of course I talked to the young woman with dark hair. Why? She’s funny, she’s smart, and at this point in my life, I’m much more concerned with jokes and brains than I am with tits and ass. Don’t get me wrong, the blonde is also smart, and I imagine she could be funny if I decided to speak to her at greater length, but I’ll let the other three guys in my class fawn all over her. I’ll take the smart funny one any day.

I’m not sure if it’s because I’m married. Clearly I’m still able to notice the traditionally attractive young woman, I just don’t have any interest in her. I don’t need attention from her to feel validated, as I almost definitely would have as an undergrad. I know who I am, and I know what I am, and I’m happy with both. So rather than pick a conversation partner that looks the best externally, I pick a conversation partner that I know will be able to challenge me intellectually, and make me laugh.

At this point in my life, hotness is irrelevant, but dumbness is a gunt.

Picture Pages

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Anonymous Coworker
on March 29, 2007 @ 10:09 am
in beer, food and potty humor
. 29 Comments

Salad dressing was on sale for a dollar.

I think I went a little bonkers.

salad dressing

Continue reading ‘Picture Pages’

Statistics homework is like an unsolicited punch in the cock

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Anonymous Coworker
on March 28, 2007 @ 10:39 am
in bitches and nerd stuff
. 23 Comments

Last night I spent 2 hours re-writing my statistics homework. I actually did all the calculations on Saturday and Sunday, but it was in my typical serial-killer handwriting, so as opposed to losing points on my homework because it’s illegible, I choose to do it once quickly and with things scratched out, and then again slowly and neatly.

I guess I could probably type it, but it would take me forever to type out equations, if that’s even possible. Where’s the fucking “xbar” key? How the fuck am I supposed to type sigma sub xbar sub 1 minus xbar sub 2 equals the square root of N sub 1 times s sub 1 squared plus N sub 2 time s sub 2 squared divided by N sub 1 plus N sub 2 minus 2? Huh? Where the fuck is the hotkey for that? Can somebody please make me a fucking macro for that?! Because it’s only the first half of the fucking equation, and once you get the motherfucking answer you still have to use another whole equation to convert the first answer into a usable z score. So it takes me ten motherfucking minutes to RE-write one part of one question.

Some of you probably had a seizure after your eyes glazed over in the middle of that last paragraph. Let me explain it to you like this: this week we had 3 homework questions. Three. It took me no less than 6 legal sized pages to re-write these questions as small as possible to keep from having 10 pages of homework to hand in. That means that at my most efficient I’m still using two shit-stabbing pages to answer one donkey-punching question. If I were to actually just write in a way that wouldn’t conserve space I couldn’t even fit one whole part of one question onto the same piece of paper. I’d have fucking reams of sigmas and standard deviations and t scores and z scores and hypothetical assumptions and normal curves that would make the fat, tree-killing love-child of Ulysses and War and Peace look like a Jews for Jesus pamphlet.

Personally I find that amount of calculation to be ab-fucking-so-fucking-lutely ri-motherfucking-goddamn-diculous. And hence the title.

Interview Tip

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Anonymous Coworker
on March 27, 2007 @ 1:42 pm
in bitches and work
. 17 Comments

If you call to cancel your interview 30 minutes before it’s scheduled to take place because you “just don’t feel up to interviewing today” your resume will go straight into the trash. Your name will be blackballed in that company, and you won’t have a chance of working there until everyone who was working on the day you offered your lame excuse is not working there anymore.

Just show up and do the interview, even if it’s terrible, and then at least you won’t have burned napalmed nuked scorched, obliterated, and utterly destroyed that bridge, and all the other bridges in the area, the entire bridge factory, and the town of Bridgeville.

Idiot.

Are you being server-ed?

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Anonymous Coworker
on March 26, 2007 @ 9:30 am
in beer and nerd stuff
. 21 Comments

Courtesy of Alex, I now have pictures of my server, but to be clear, Alex is not the person responsible for maintaining this facility.

server1

server2

You’ll have to look at them at full-size to see the magnitude of crappiness that is server that hosts my blog. Some things to notice:

my server has holes drilled in the front of it. For wind reduction or something.
my server is in a dingy basement laundry room
my server room has a kegerator

Those of you who read my blog and are nerds, have a field day with these two pictures.

WACW, Glen Burnie; transmitting without an FCC license

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Anonymous Coworker
on March 23, 2007 @ 10:06 am
in Mrs. ACW, devil cat, horror, movies and zombies
. 36 Comments

The other night my douchebag cats were keeping me up by doing stupid douchebaggy things like banging on the closet doors, banging on the shower doors, and banging on the doors to the linen closet. Why do they do this? Because they want me to get up, because when I get up that means I might feed them. Might. So, in an attempt to get food at 2, 4, and 6am, they bang on all kinds of shit so that I might get up and feed them. This is their version of the lottery, and I’ve started giving them the “jackpot” by squirting them in the face with a spray bottle of water. Hopefully in a few weeks it’ll sink into their heads that banging on shit equals wet face.

On this particular night I tried to go back to sleep, but of course my mind wandered, and as usual, the first thing my mind wanders to is movies. Horror movies. In an attempt to not terrify myself awake by thinking of the crazy American guy blowtorching the face of the Japanese girl in Hostel while surrounded by zombies from Night of the Living Dead and running away into the foot-chase from Texas Chainsaw Massacre I instead thought about cell-phones in horror movies, and why they’re never brought along.

Can you imagine the frustration of the moviegoer to have sit through a scene like this?:

Hero dialing phone.

Hero: Hey man, we could really use some help here…. Hello… What?… No, it’s Mike… MIKE… IT’S MIKE… MIKE… Hello?… What?… Yes, it’s Mike… YES, IT’S MIKE… We need some help… HELP…. WE NEED SOME HELP…. What?… Are you still there?… What?… WE. NEED. SOME. HELP…. Yeah… Yeah, help… We’re at the farm. … The farm… THE FARM… AT THE FARM… THE Fa oh fuck it, I’ll just do this myself.

Hero throws phone at zombified serial killer that’s been waiting politely for the call to end.

Aaaaand scene.

Nobody wants to see that movie. Except for maybe me. But anyway, while I was laying in bed thinking about that, I distinctly heard the sound of a voice being transmitted through an electronic medium, and it freaked me right the fuck out.

It wasn’t clear enough to be a TV or radio. It wasn’t even clear enough to be a cell phone. It sounded like someone was talking quietly through a megaphone. I lifted my head up to get a better location on the sound, and I caught a “can you give me a locatio”, so I figured it was the cops or an ambulance, but couldn’t figure out why they were using a megaphone outside. Then I heard, “it’s a uhhhhhh 10-”, and suddenly I realized that the sound wasn’t outside, but was INSIDE the house.

I whipped my head around to check my phone. It was closed. It couldn’t be that. The TV was off and so was the radio, and I knew for a fact that computer was off because I checked it before I got back in bed after spraying the cats.

“what’s the uhhhh”

It was right next to my ear. To say that the paranoia was overwhelming would be an understatement. My chest was constricting. My eyes were bulging out of my head. My body was completely rigid. It wasn’t until I heard it again that I realized I hadn’t been breathing.

“a car about three”

I very slowly turned my head to look at where the sound was coming from, and as Mrs. ACW inhaled I heard, “and it was going” come out of her mouth, and I immediately realized something was happening that I had first read about in Encyclopedia Brown in the 3rd grade, but had never actually experienced until now; Mrs. ACW’s braces were picking up transmissions on the emergency frequency. The voices I heard were those of cops, or ambulances drivers, or somebody, because I could hear the distinct static of the walkie-talkie things they use. And I could only hear anything when she was breathing in. She was breathing kind of heavily, but not to the point of snoring, and her mouth was slightly open. Every time she took a breath in I guess it vibrated her mouth enough for me to hear the transmission, because when she breathed out I couldn’t hear anything.

I actually laid there and listened to the transmissions for about 15 minutes until Mrs. ACW rolled over and the connection was lost. Mrs. ACW thinks I was dreaming about the whole thing and that it’s impossible for it to happen, but I’m 100% certain that I was awake, and even though I can’t find much evidence in a 5 minute Google search, I’m sure somebody out there has had a similar experience or can explain to her that yes, it does happen from time to time. Have you ever heard of this?

Just when you thought it was safe to go back to the Internet

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Anonymous Coworker
on March 22, 2007 @ 9:04 am
in necrophilia and potty humor
. 22 Comments

Broadsheet, from the bottom of her heart, pointed out this Yahoo article to me. It’s not very long, so I want you all to read it. I will wait here and sing one of the greatest classic rock songs ever written until you get back…

When I’m tired and thinking cold
I hide in my music, forget the day,
And dream of a girl I used to know.
I closed my eyes and she slipped away.

She slipped away.

It’s more than a feeling (more than a feeling)…

Oh, you’re back. Great.

So, I don’t really see anything wrong with this guy killing a deer and having sex with it, or finding a dead deer and having sex with that. The article isn’t clear on what exactly the circumstances were. In my mind it’s not worse to kill a deer and have sex with it than it is to kill a deer and turn it into chops, jerky, and slippers.

I mean really, is there any reason whatsoever that you should be able to tell anyone what they can do with the animal that they caught and killed? Would you walk up to Ted Nugent, The Nuge, and say, “Excuse me Mr. The Nuge, but I don’t think you should eat that deer,” or, “Hey Mr. Cat Scratch Fever, I don’t think you should wear that deer’s head as a hat and turn its hide into a thong.” Why not? Because it’s none of your goddamned business what he does with the deer.

It’s none of my business what kind of freaky crap you do in your house, and it’s none of your business what kind of freaky crap I do in my house (though I feel compelled to mention once again that I personally find necrophilia, bestiality, and necrobestiality revolting). It’s this puritanical notion that we can tell people how they can enjoy themselves that makes vibrators illegal in Alabama and Texas, and that you can’t buy beer in Baltimore County on a Sunday (or choose the favorite blue law in your area).

Now, the horse he killed is an altogether different issue because chances are the horse belonged to someone. But once the horse was dead, it doesn’t really matter what he did to it. He could have killed it and stuffed it in a sack in his attic, or shot into space on a rocket, or had sex with it. Nothing is going to bring the horse back to life, so why does it matter that he was going to hump it? Prosecute him for stealing the horse and killing it, but leave it at that.

Finally, I feel it important to note that Boston’s “More Than A Feeling” is one of the worst songs ever recorded.

If you’re looking for clues in the title you might be taking this too literally

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on March 21, 2007 @ 8:44 am
in jokes, meta blogging and word nerd
. 20 Comments

I’m not even sure where to start, but in order to make things as confusing as possible, I’ll begin thusly:

That first sentence isn’t even necessary. I could have just started here and the effect would have been the same. Well, I couldn’t have exactly started here because the reference to the first sentence would be meaningless because the first sentence wouldn’t exist, and all of this talk about first sentences now would actually reference the sentence, “That first sentence isn’t even necessary,” which would make things all the more confusing. So rather than further confuse things, I’ll start here:

Well, now I’ve done it twice. Anything I type at this point becomes absolute nonsense. I could wax poetic about benefits of corpse canoodling (I know you’ve all been waiting for me to bring that topic up again) and even on my blog, it wouldn’t make a damn bit of sense in this context, because you would first have to read through the above two paragraphs, and then get to this and you’d be thinking, “He’s gone completely bonkers. He’s fully off his nut. I can’t wait for the coming weeks and months as his blog further spirals towards insanity, and I’ll have a front row seat. But I promise not to enjoy it too much, because that would be wrong.”

And here we are at the fourth paragraph and we’ve made no headway into anything resembling an actual blog post whatsoever.

Really. Who’s still reading this drivel? It’s like a train wreck collapsing inward on itself creating a rip in the space time continuum and all you can think to do is wonder where that cotton candy smell is coming from.

Nope.

The next paragraph begins with a renewed sense of hope in the reader. With that sentence ended and this one referencing that one, the reader wonders why this sentence is addressing the reader as “the reader” and why all three sentences have been referencing themselves. This sentence adds to the confusion. As does this one. And this one as well. This one started out vibrant, and with the hope that it would add some sort of clarity, but alas, it does not.

No. No don’t do it. Put the delete key down. No. No sentences! It doesn’t have to come to this! N

I swear I’m not drunk right now

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on March 20, 2007 @ 8:46 am
in beer, food, i am so fucking awesome, meta blogging, nerd stuff and suhmuhmuh bitch
. 18 Comments

This weekend was full of debauchery and all around behavior ill-befitting of someone who already has a hard time passing as a grown-up. Most of the time when people tell you they had a crazy weekend, it sounds like this: “Oh dude. This weekend was off the heezy fo sheezy. We got so wasted. Binky and Cho-cho were bangin’ down the jello shots while JD and Lefty were totally scoring on some hot babes. Chico, Winks, Skimmer, Dope, Grundle, and Jeff were getting into some killer beer pong while Beast, Ox, Minxly, Charfs, Lefty #2, Brody, Slump, Dingle, and Zoozer found this inflatable kiddie pool…” and it’s usually at that point that I punch them for a) wasting my time, and b) having friends with such retarded nicknames. I hope this doesn’t come to that.

So, in roughly chronological order, here’s what happened:

trash

We drank a lot. Guinness, Smithwick’s, Yuengling, wine, etc.

Which led to this:

shot glasses in sink

Which of course led to this:

quesadilla maker

quesadilla maker

quesadilla maker

That’s my absolutely RAVAGED quesadilla maker. So savagely ravaged that someone *coughmokiecough* punched their thumbs right through the top of it:

quesadilla maker

quesadilla maker

quesadilla maker

quesadilla maker

Apparently a gorilla had overstuffed his quesadilla with cheese, so he put his entire weight onto the glorified Foreman grill to close it, and the end result looks like the cringe-worthy part of a scary, ultraviolent prison-movie.

Because the thing was busted, I figured I’d take it apart to see if it was salvageable. Upon removing the exterior, I found cheese lodged into the furthest crevices of the interior of the machine. It took me hours to take it apart because every surface was covered with cheese-grease and my screwdriver couldn’t find any purchase on the screws.

Once I got everything apart I washed it and dried it thoroughly, and then to be on the safe side I let it air dry for a while too. I finally put it all back together, but found on testing the device that I had reversed the “On/Off” light with the “Ready” light. So now the On/Off light blinks while the Ready light stays on constantly. No big whoop I guess. Also, no more cheese-spilling ass-bags of a brother using the quesadilla maker anymore.

I guess I should probably mention that I recovered from the evening’s libations before I took the thing apart. At least I had the sense to do that. What I didn’t have the sense to do was go to sleep. I apparently responded to comments on this post at about 3 in the morning. I only know this because I woke up the next day and thought, “Maybe I’ll see if anybody commented on yesterday’s post.” I hadn’t checked the comments after I posted because I was so busy yesterday. At first I was reading along, preparing responses in my head while wondering why they all seemed so familiar until I saw that I had already commented on the comments. I had a vague recollection of using the computer the night before, but nothing about my blog, or the comments. Most people get drunk and call exes, or pig-out, or do something really stupid and get married. Me? I blog. It’s really really sad.

At least there’s only one typo, and my spelling is still flawless, which means that I’m pretty much a stickler for grammar and punctuation even when fully hammered; and that you can count on quality blogging just like that, even when I’m hammered. None of this, “acw opeef all ovewr hisa furbalz” nonsense. I bring my A-game, even when so incapacitated that I don’t remember bringing my A-game.

Her breath was kickin’ like Van Damme

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on March 16, 2007 @ 11:55 am
in suhmuhmuh bitch
. 21 Comments

Apparently the middle of the day is the wild domain of the unemployed and the elderly. The line at the post office was out the door and into the rain, but I eschewed that mess in favor of the electronic (gasp!) full-service touch-screen Robopostman.

In moments I had the proper postage and mail certification attached to my envelope, and in the blink of an eye it was mailed without my having to wade through a sea of old-people stink (loneliness and braunschweiger), unemployed people stink (desperation and Old Spice), or deal with the sullen attitude of a petulant fourth-grade drop-out behind the counter.

From there I went to Home Depot, where it seems someone had left an old lady in the passenger seat of their car while they went shopping. She was terrified to see me, someone born after the Eisenhower administration, out during her halcyon hours of the day.

I went inside and found the friendliest, most helpful, and largest Home Depot staff that I’ve ever seen. You couldn’t swing a pregnant monkey without hitting an employee. 20 minutes later I had what I needed, and it seems like the culture of Home Depot had equalized. One register was open, no other employees were anywhere to be found, and the woman at the register was irritable and unresponsive. I jumped the line and headed for the self-checkout when I saw their lights come on, but I was quickly stymied.

I scanned my first item and the display instructed me to put it in the bag next to the register. “Well no shit,” I thought to myself, “I wasn’t exactly going to smuggle it out of here in my engorged anal cavity.” But no sooner had the item gone into the bag than the display told me there was an unexpected item in the bagging area, and to remove it from the bag. So I pulled the item out of the bag and the machine immediately balked at my action. It was incensed that an item had been removed from the bagging area, and I was instructed in no uncertain terms to put the item back in the bagging area. I complied, and the display told me that there was an unexpected item in the bagging are that I needed to remove it.

I played with that little feedback loop for about a minute before the wheezing walrus from the first register waddled over to give her sage advice.

“You gotta put that back in the bag.”

“I did. And when I do, it tells me to take it back out again.”

She sighed, an elephantine groan that belied whatever fast-food restaurants on which she had recently gorged, and entered the feedback loop herself. She must have spent 10 minutes doing the same thing over and over again. Item in, item out. Item out, item in. Over and over. Pavlov’s dogs weren’t as consistent on their best day.

Finally a manager came upon the situation and simply cleared out the whole sale, and told me to scan that first item last. I did, experienced no more trouble, and wondered how long that wooly-woman would have spent standing there with her eyes glazed over, flabby arm hovering over the scanning area.

Probably until lunch.

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