Archive for April, 2007

Lawnmower Man

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on April 30, 2007 @ 9:14 am
in bitches and suhmuhmuh bitch
. 16 Comments

It was a banner fucking weekend at the Coworker household, let me tell you. First of all, no, no one fucked any banners, get your mind out of the gutter. I live in a tiny duplex, so I share stuff with my neighbors. They get the benefit of me mowing the whole front lawn every now and then (as opposed to just my half) and in return we get to listen to our elderly neighbors have screaming matches with each other over the dumbest shit in the world. Example:

“Did you take the trash out?!”
“What!?”
“The trash! The trash! Did you take it out!?”
“Not yet!”
“Why don’t you take the goddamned trash out?!”
“I’m getting around to it!”

Imagine that in a horrible harpy-esque screeching, mixed with a drunkenly slurred hollering, and you’ve pretty much got the ambient noise that is our neighbors. Also, they kindly share their ants. Every summer ants start pouring out of the walls until we nuke the shit out of them with some Sevin Dust (which I’ve been so happy with that I’m willing to shill for them for free. But be sure to get the Sevin 10. Sevin 5 is for pussies.), and then they ask me if we have ants, and I say, “Not anymore,” and they ask how I got rid of them and I tell them, but they never do shit about it. I’m sure this is also a fight they have.

So anyway, I’m mowing the lawn yesterday, and I’m trying to steer around the sewer-pipe/wastewater access pipe in my neighbors yard when the mower slips and lands right on top of what is essentially a 6-inch-wide metal stump that sticks up three inches out of the ground. There’s a terrible sound like two metal pitbulls trying to get their hump on, and then the mower spits out HALF of the pipe cover. I have no idea where the other half went. I look towards the front door of their house and the old bastard is standing right there so I wave him out so I can show him what happened. He gives me the “wait a minute” finger and heads into the house. I take the opportunity to inspect the damage and notice that there’s a huge ant infestation living inside the access pipe. At that moment he drunkenly stumbles into the yard and picks up 50% of his pipe cover. I start to apologize when he says, “No, it don’t fit on right. It ain’t never fit on. It just sits on top like this.” He didn’t even notice that his pipe cover had been sheared in half.

So I start to tell him about the ants, and he’s peering down the hole, half a pipe cover in one hand, his other hand rubbing the back of his head with contemplation as he wobbles back and forth like a geriatric Weeble full of too much Schlitz and then he says, “Looks like I’m going to have to pour some gasoline down there,” and I just want to smack him.

“Listen you liver-spotted imbecile- if you didn’t throw bread out on the lawn every day you wouldn’t have all these ants and you wouldn’t have to pour gasoline into a sewer line that most likely feeds directly into the Bay,” is what I would have said if I didn’t want to just get the hell out of there, so I instead just made a grunting noise that sounded vaguely affirmative and went back to mowing while making a mental note to buy twice as much Sevin Dust this year.

It ends. Now.

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on April 27, 2007 @ 11:10 am
in POS Tercel and uncategorized
. 11 Comments

Glitzy:
“What tips / advice do you have for the folken who are considering going to grad school and working full time?”

Kiss you social life goodbye and make sure you have a strong support network. Seriously. To do ANYTHING you’ll need to plan it well in advance so you have time to work around your homework. On top of that you’ll need friends and family that will understand your inability to do anything anymore, but who will be ready to give you some beers and make you dinner when you flunk an exam.

Diamond Lil:
“Where have all the flowers gone?”

I didn’t realize they were missing.

Jenna:
“Why is it impossible to eat while watching porn?”

I’ve never really had any problem, but then again, I don’t really watch tons of porn. I imagine that if you’re the type that goes on a 7-day, 24-hour porn binge, your brain is probably too warped to be able to do anything but allow you to drool on yourself. Besides, the starlets don’t see to have any trouble eating while making porn. (Possibly nsfw link)

lovemonkey:
“‘wicked retarted.’ Do I know where you’re from????”

You’re probably thinking Boston, but I’m not. I was born and raised just outside of Baltimore, and now I live in Glen Burnie. “Wicked Retarded” is just one of those regional sayings that I’ve added to my lexicon over the years. Like “cheers” from the UK, “yins” from northwest PA, and “guh” from West Virginia.

Sassy Blondie:
“If a bear farts in the woods, will the butterflies hear it?”

No. Butterflies don’t have ears. However, if they are within the danger zone, they’d incinerate before they heard it anyway.

Desk Job:
“My car was almost stolen at the Metro station yesterday, should I stop working in DC (in favor of another location) or suck it up and deal? Basically you can get in my car now with a screw driver. Do I have yet another reason to hate Metro and DC?”

See, your problem is the type of car that you drive. Rather than owning and driving a POS Tercel with 130,000 miles on it, you own a car that people would actually want to get their hands on. I could park my car in the middle of an abandoned parking lot with a giant neon arrow pointing to it and the keys in the ignition with the windows down and the doors open and still no one would steal it.

a.g.:
“Will M.Snay ever get laid?”

Of course he will. He’s friendly, jovial, caring, funny, giving, and nice almost to a fault. He just needs to find that right type of woman with gams from here to heaven and the right amount of perkiness, if you get my drift. It would also help if she liked Legos, Harry Potter, Battlestar Galactica, Star Trek, Star Wars, zombies, and Highlander. Speaking of, if you’re (yes you, out there on the internet) that type of lady, I’m sure Snay wouldn’t mind you reading his blog.

Alan:
“Friday Bonus Questions:

1. What secret would you never tell your blushing bride? You should probably ROT13 encode your answer since she reads your buh-log.

2. Are you smarter than a 5th Grader?

3. Given the following question:

“Assume Moe paid an arithemtic average of $250 for four
ladies of the evening. One of the women cost more than
all of the others. How much did he pay for the most expensive
woman?”

Is statement 1 alone, statement 2 alone or both statement 1
and 2 necessary to answer the question?

Statement 1: Moe paid the most expensive hooker $100 more
than the least expensive hooker.

Statement 2: Moe paid an arithmetic average of $900 for three
of the ladies.

Please justify your answer in a well thought out argument
containing no vulgar slang for coitus.

4. As Lori suggests, can a question have more than one answer? Can it have more than one _simple_ answer?

5. Who or what the fuck is the Green Marinèe?

6. If you and your blushing bride ever create offspring and the personality of said offspring takes more after your blushing bride, how will you explain this blog to them when they eventually find it on “Googles Buh-logs of Antiquity (Beta)”?

7. Why is it that when I’m really late for an appointment at work or to pick up my mal-adjusted offspring from Day-Torture, the drivers that annoy me by either blocking lanes while driving slower than traffic in their lane, or doing idiotic maneuvers while yapping on cell phones always seem to be driving one of three cars. It’s either an old-ass Jetta, a BMW Z4 (Yuppie putz) or a Celica (pain in the ass stoner). What’s up with that?

And the 25 point bonus question:

Discounting Making Whoopie and any chemically (including ETOH) altered states, when was the last time your were enthusiasticaly, eurphorically happy and what were you doing?”

Jiminy fucking Cricket, dude. What the fuck is wrong with you? We’re looking at what, 15 questions now? Seriously. Seriously. What the fuck?

1) I have no secrets from my wife. I mean, I don’t tell her every little damn stupid thing that happens to me throughout the day, but I don’t really hold anything back either. Though I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know about the meth lab.

2) Yes. I’m also smarter than most people with a bachelor’s degree, and many CEOs.

3) Who the fuck cares? He still paid a grand to fuck 4 chicks, but it doesn’t even matter how much it cost because the chlamydia will be the same in the morning.

4) Yes, all questions have more than one answer. All but one might be wrong, but they’re still answers and they can be as simple as “yes” or “no”.

5) I believe it’s the design template upon which my blog layout has been created.

6) “I was young and I needed the no money.”

7) People are fucking stupid. There’s a simple answer.

Bonus) Wow. 18 or whatever questions from you and we FINALLY get to a great one. The last time I was enthusiatically, euphorically happy was when I was watching my favorite scene from the Simpsons and cooking dinner with my wife, all the windows open in the house as the first warm air of spring blew through the living room.

Malnurtured Snay:
“Congrats on making bucket-loads of new money! Does this mean your old job is open? Because, um, I’m looking for something.”

Sorry dude. New title, more work, same job. If it counts for anything though I tried to get you some booty up there ^.

Gwenhwyfar:
“How can I make the crick in my neck go away?”

If you find out, PLEASE let me know because I never know how to get rid of these. I’ll tell you what not to do though. Don’t try to stretch it. That hurts like a bitch.

Poppy:
“I HAVE A QUESTION. ANOTHER QUESTION. That’s been bugging me the ENTIRE TIME I’ve read your blog. Your brother is always such a jackass to you on your blog. Is he that way to you in real life? (Sorry mokie, but YOU ARE!!)”

We’re both that way to each other. Combine that with our constant joking with each other at the expense of most racial, ethnic, and religious minorities and we’re pretty much unsuitable to be around. But that’s just on the surface. Deep down, he really cares. But not in a “gay” way. It’s more of a two-brothers-who-have-sex way.

Anger Hangover:
“Dear ACW,
I’ve always wanted to ask you if you get that, you know, not-so-fresh feeling?
Thanks in advance,
AngyHangy”

Well, to be honest, yes I do. It’s usually after a night spent down at the disco while having anonymous sex with anything with legs. Which isn’t to say that I ignore the amputees, they get to ride too. It’s typically at that point that I stumble down the street to find a dealer who will accept perverse sexual favors in lieu of payment, and usually they want to jam something into my ass-crevice. And let me tell ya, on the way in it’s not so bad, but on the way out it’s exquisite. Before I know it I wake up behind a Denny’s with 3 days of stubble, tied up with a fire hose, and a tattoo that says “Tight as a Virgin”… on my ear.

Oh, wait. You were talking about douching. No, I don’t douche.

S. Reed:
“‘I think it’s because I’ll brashly and obviously insult you. You penis-holster.’
Meh. I guess that’ll do.”

Were you upset by my effort to undermine your plan to be roundly and thoroughly insulted by the likes of ME? You were lucky to get “penis-holster” you Lost-loving, American Idol-watching mush-melon. Had I the time to fully examine the extent of your foibles, of which there are so many that they are nearly countless, I still wouldn’t be able to include everything. How could I possibly include your infantile support of what passes as professional sports teams in Boston while simultaneously insulting your oozing man-love of hideous bands like Boston, Journey, Styx, and Asia? Why don’t you just admit that you wish Tom Brady would take practice throws at your gaping manhole while Neil Peart uses your gaping slack-jawed mouth for a drumstick holder?

Is that more like what you were looking for?

This shit was exhausting.

Lots of music questions for some reason

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on April 26, 2007 @ 10:00 am
in Mrs. ACW, devil cat, i am so fucking awesome, music, necrophilia, school, sex and zombies
. 8 Comments

Monkey:
“Am I the only one who listened to the damn song?
I feel completely violated. Wishing on a magic ham indeed.
If you and Mrs. ACW were to start a band, would the cats also be band members and if so, what would you name the band?
Why is my second toe longer than my big toe?”

It would be a true shame if you were the only one who listened to the song. I think it’s a heartbreaking work of staggering genius*, but your mileage may vary. You may love it, or you may really really love it. Some people, however, will only find it to be exquisite. Either way, it’s an auditory orgasm.

If Mrs. ACW and I started a band, the cats would probably be in it. We’d be called the Lollipop Goodlove Kittykat Traintrack Experiment, and or music would be post-apocalyptic hard-core gangsta emo dub. After going triple-platinum in our first week, we’d bury ourselves in a mountain of coke and catnip, not to emerge from said mountain range of chemical delights for at least two years. Our next album would be so bad that we’d be lucky to go double-wood. After much soul searching we agree to change the band name to an unpronounceable phrase comprised of Gaelic, Icelandic, and Wolof before releasing a critically acclaimed album so good that all radio DJs learn Gaelic, Icelandic, and Wolof to properly pronounce our band name. For our final album, This Radio Station Sucks, we change our name to This DJ Sucks, and our hit song will be This Song Sucks.

Your second toe is longer than your big toe because you’re a freak.


your neighborhood librarian:
“Will you make up some alternate lyrics to “Goodbye Old Paint” so that I can get my husband’s version, which involves the horse being made into dogfood, out of my head?”

My first instinct is to say, “No,” since I’ve never heard this song before, but seeing as I have free creative control here, I give you this:

Goodbye, old Paint, I’m a-leavin’ Cheyenne;
Goodbye, old Paint, I’m a-leavin’ Cheyenne.

I’m a-leavin’ Cheyenne, I’m off to Montan’
Goodbye, old Paint, I’m a-leavin’ Cheyenne;

Old Paint’s a good pony, he does what he can,
Goodbye, old Paint, I’m a-leavin’ Cheyenne;

Go get the peanut-butter and give it to me
And get your tongue ready ’cause we’re gettin’ busy.

My hosses ain’t pretty, but they do the job
My “wagon” is loaded and ready to throb.

My foot’s in the horse, his mane in my hand,
Good mornin’, young lady. Join this “caravan”?.

Alan:
“Ok, Here’s the rest of my questions:

1. While playing hide and seek with my three year old, after hiding in the closet from me and me pretending to give up, he bursts out of the closet and proclaims, “I’m out of the closet!” I should definitely recount this tale to all of his future romantic interests, correct?

2. Is this whole question/answer deal just something to keep us entertained, by reading each other’s questions instead of proper buh-logger content?

3. What are your thoughts about the discussion of fisting in the film, “Chasing Amy”? Is there some higher concept or is it just a method of attracting guys to what is essentially a “chick-flick”? If you haven’t seen the film, you can either rent it or skip this question — your option.

4. If you engage in coitus with a zombie, is this necrophilia. What if the zombie eats you first? And by eating, I mean biting and chewing you. Umm… Actually, zombie-ism could explain some of my previous sexual partner’s technique…

5. Have you made any “unintentional” purchases on ebay recently?

6. I’m trying to simplify my life. However, the solution I keep coming up with involves feeding my wife’s office manager to lions, zombies or other human flesh-eating entities. Is this OK?

7. Is Neil Peart overrated?”

Jesus Christ, dude. Fuck. What’s with all the goddamned questions? Do you see anyone else asking 8 questions? Fuck, man. Shit. All right, I’ll do it, because I said I’d do it, but I’m not making the answers funny.

1) You should make him re-enact and post it on YouTube. Make sure you have digital AND hard copies just in case we experience a monumental shift in technology between now and when he turns 16.

2) You tell me Mr. Eight Motherfucking Questions.

3) Chick flick? What? Chasing Amy is an hilarious third movie in the six-movie View Askew trilogy. There are lots of jokes for dudes, chicks, lesbians, and gay guys. You are clearly an idiot.

4) I wrote a big post about this last summer.

5) I think the last thing I bought on ebay was about 2 years ago. Ebay is a cesspool.

6) Of course it’s okay. Just remember to dice up the office manager into smaller bits so the animals don’t choke.

7) Are you kidding me? No. Of course not. How can someone be over-rated when everyone knows they suck?

mokiejovis:
“You are a cockbag. Pretend there’s a question mark at the end of that last sentence.”

Wow. There are so many things wrong with these two sentences that I’m not even sure where to begin. First of all, I’m surprised you were able to pull your face away from your own crotch long enough to even think of a “question”, and second, I’m surprised you were able to extricate your digits from your nostrils and anus long enough to actually type said “question”. Which brings me to my next point; our parents clearly wasted their money on your high-school and collegiate education. It’s obvious that you understand that a question requires a question mark at the end of the sentence, but you don’t have any idea of how to form a sentence. I’m not surprised, really, because I watched you live your entire childhood as if you were fed only paint-chips from the moment you began eating solid food. Remember when you pooped in the bathtub and then began to play with the floating feces? I’d bring up more incidents but I’m certain that your face has once again drifted to your lap, not to re-emerge until your Tivo alerts you to the new episodes of 7th Heaven that have been recorded.

S. Reed:
“Alan, I can answer your #7:
No!
Okay, I’ve outed myself as a Rush fan. Here’s my question:
Why can’t I think of any legitimate questions to ask you? Is it because I’m sure you’ll eloquently insult me with your answer?”

So clearly we both agree that Neil Peart Sucks. Let’s move on.

I don’t think it’s because I’ll eloquently insult you. I think it’s because I’ll brashly and obviously insult you. You penis-holster.

Monkey:
“5. Have you made any “unintentional” purchases on ebay recently?
I second this query.”

Sorry. Nothing to see here. I still think ebay is a cesspool.

Melissa:
“YAY, stats is done for me! Wrote my exam yesterday, just hope I passed *crosses fingers*”

Ugh. I finish on the 21st. I’m taking the day off because I know I’ll just be too distracted otherwise.

The Phoenix:
“My stomach is sour from the necrophelia thing. Is that where the Greatful Dead got their name from?”

Heh. According to the collection of all human knowledge in existence the Dead picked their name out of a dictionary. No mention if they had been, were going to, or were at that moment humping corpses.

Gwenhwyfar:
“So here’s the nerdiest question I could come up with on short notice (that has nothing to do with fucking the dead):
If all objects and persons on the Holodeck are real only inside it (disappearing as soon as they step out of it) then why the hell, when Wesley falls into the water and gets soaked, does he remain wet when he leaves the Holodeck? Shouldn’t the water disappear like everything else leaving him bone dry?
Go ahead and mock me, I’ve already made fun of myself for being such a geek. Why shouldn’t you?”

There’s a simple answer for this, and it may surprise you. Imagine the holodeck as a type of dimensional portal, rather than a place where scenes and scenarios can be replicated, and in this dimensional portal, anything can happen, even shitty writing, plot holes, and continuity errors by the idiotic yet over-zealous hacks that wrote ST:TNG. They were too busy writing plots to put skimpier and skimpier outfits on the cast members with breasts and then get them in situations with the potential for side-boob than actually pay a goddamn bit of attention about anything else.

Fleh. The rest tomorrow.

*Thanks to Dave Eggers for that phrase.

More Thundercats? Seriously? You people are losers.

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on April 25, 2007 @ 9:47 am
in Mrs. ACW, i am so fucking awesome, jokes, meta blogging, potty humor and sex
. 7 Comments

aLs:
“Hypothetical situation: In the middle of a zombie attack, your best friend gets scratched. You know that sometime in the next few hours or days, he is going to join the legion of the undead. Do you shoot him right away or after you ask him for his permission? If you shoot him right away, what’s your favorite color?”

Scratched? Unless some amount of blood or saliva infected the scratch, I doubt a scratch would be enough to turn a person into a zombie. This is not to say that I wouldn’t monitor my friend carefully for changes in health, but I’d be much less likely to kill immediately over a scratch as opposed to a bite. If my friend had been bitten I’d give them a gun with a single round, but I’d also make sure that they were equipped with anything else they’d need. We’d fight side by side until he could feel himself succumbing to zombosity and he took himself out, or if we were in the heat of battle and he went down, I’d make sure that he didn’t come back up. I hope that my friends would give me the same chance to keep fighting, but would be as wary of me as well.

Regardless of all that, my favorite color is still your mom.

Stephanie:
“No. It was Liono and Cheetara.”

Seriously? You think Cheetara would get with someone like Lion-o? Lion-o had a bigger god-complex than Bono and Scott Stapp’s love child could ever hope for. Though Lion-o still would have better hair. Cheetara was totally banging Panthro, whether you racists will admit it or not.

Ugly Toy:
“Nah, Liono just fancied Cheetara, he was always a little awkward when she was around… Panthro was definately hitting that though.
Is Jessica Rabbit hot? and is it wrong to find cartoons hot? If not, should you worry about your sexuality if you found Bugs Bunny hot when he dressed up as a girl bunny?”

Finally, someone who agrees with me. Don’t let the racists tell you otherwise! Just because they hate humanoid-bestiality miscegenation doesn’t mean we have to agree with them.

No, Jessica Rabbit was not hot. She was weird, and disproportionate, and odd-looking, and, well… cartoonish. Plus, I’ve never really fancied big boobs. And no I don’t think it’s wrong to find cartoons hot, but I think they should look a bit more human than Jessica Rabbit did. But hey, whatever twists your pickle is none of my business. Finally, no, I don’t think you should worry about your sexuality if you found Bugs Bunny hot when he was cross dressing, but I think you should probably stop dry-humping the mascots at Six Flags. Consent- dude, look it up.

Huw:
“Er… I’m pretty sure Tigra wasn’t interested in Cheetara if you get my drift. I mean, a whip?!
If you had to give up sleep or food (but could still function perfectly without), which would you forsake?”

Yes, Tygra was an effeminate, collar-popping nancy-boytiger, and Cheetara preferred Panthro, because once you go panther, uh, you, uh, want to keep going back to panther. Or something.

Anyway, if I were to have to give up food or sleep, I’d give up sleep. Can you imagine how much time I’d have? I’d add at least 33% more time to my life. Plus, I could eat on the go, no problem, and I’d still be able to sample the finest foods in the world. Nobody ever comes back from Beijing or Monaco or Buenos Aires and says, “Man, the sleep there was awesome,” but I’ll be damned if they don’t rave about the food. Unless they’re the typical American idiot who travels abroad and spends a day looking for McDonald’s. Speaking of, I’m still jonesing for some Walker’s crisps, so if any of you limey tea-drinkers wants to help me hook that up, I’d really appreciate it.

Robin:
“Are you this acerbic and grumpy in real life, or is it something you save for us - your bloggy buddies?
Perhaps you should check with Mrs. ACW, before giving a definitive answer.
Also, the Thunder Cats were too busy fighting the bad guys to get it on. Yes they were. YES THEY WERE! Now stop ruining my fond childhood memories.”

Am I this grumpy? It depends. Ask me about the government and it’ll probably get my hackles up. Otherwise, no, not really. I try to be as over the top as possible when telling my stories because they’re funnier that way. I think Mrs. ACW would agree that for the most part I’m pretty good-humored.

Also, yes, the Thundercats WERE doing it. Do you think they were just sitting around waiting for a half hour each week for you to tune in and see what they were up to? No, they were banging the bottoms out of each other. If I remember correctly they pretty much had a week-long orgy, breaking only on Wednesday nights for an all you can eat fried chicken buffet at Golden Corral, before getting back to a daisy chain of “hairballs” and snorting mountains of catnip. They were doing shit that would melt your face. They lived in a state of pure ecstasy and unlimited hedonism and debauchery. It’s what made their adventures so thrilling.

Stephanie:
“The older I get, the more I sexualize old cartoons.”

That’s GOT to make the Care Bears a little creepy.

I think we’re done with the Thundercats tangent. More laters.

I know some of you are pervy Orko-fetishists

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on April 24, 2007 @ 8:50 am
in uncategorized
. 15 Comments

Savage Bliss:
“Panthro and Cheetara - were they doing it?”

You know they were. But the problem with Cheetara is that she’s too quick for her own good. He always got his, and she never got hers. I guess that’s like the curse of being TOO good at it. Or something. Wait. Have I been tricked in to talking about bestiality, or does it not count because they’re humanoids? Since they were cats, do you think they ever did it “doggy style” or would Panthro beg for the perverse pleasure of the missionary position because they were freaky-deaky animals anyway? Why do I suddenly have so many questions about the mating rituals of Thundercats? Does this bring new meaning to the term “Thundercats, HO!”?

Hanmee:
“I always wanted Tigra and Cheetara to get together.”

That’s because you’re a racist and you couldn’t handle a strong representation of Nubian warrior banging the bejeezus out of the upper-class and white character inherent in Cheetara. You just had to have the preppy white chump Tygra with the white Cheetara. No race-muddling for you. Why don’t you go back to your Klan meeting?

mojotek:
“Why did they kill off everyone’s favorite Transformers halfway through the movie, and then try and create a bunch of new ones to fill their spots? Bumblebee didn’t deserve that kind of fate!”

Are you talking about the Michael Bay movie, or the original cartoon? Because I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve seen neither. I’m pretty sure that as kids the only time we ever went to the movies is when my mom had enough coupons during matinee showtimes that she only had to pay less than a dollar for tickets for her and three kids. And I’m so lax about pop-culture now that it takes me about a minimum of 6 months to see the movies that are currently showing. So to answer your question, I have no idea.

stephanie:
“Why are some people crazy and other people are not crazy?”

Oh, see, I guess nobody ever told you: everybody’s crazy. It’s much more of a continuum from “Really fucking batshit loco” to “slightly crazy” with many people falling under the largest part of the bell curve, which is defined as “crazy in a way that’s not readily apparent to acquaintances”. For example, you have the type of crazy where people steal other people’s shoes and then create a big pile of stolen shoes, urinate on them, set themselves on fire, and then roll around in the shoe-pile. That’s crazy. Then there’s the type of crazy where you save anything remotely burnable like dryer lint and old phone books so I can burn them in the firebowl that Mrs. ACW got me for my birthday last year. Finally you’ve got the type of crazy where you get a 40-hour a week job in a cubicle farm, pay a mortgage, get married and have a few kids and go home every night to kill your brain with reality TV because you never took a single chance in life. Everybody is crazy. It’s just all different types.

Alilinsane:
“Why did Sally sell seashells on the seashore when you can just pick them up anyway?”

It’s all about the laws of supply and demand. Down at the seashore Sally sold shells to supplement several shady sharks shiftlessly sliding silently… uh… shit. Alliteration is hard. I don’t know. Sally was a crackhead?

tfg:
“Congratulations on the promotion.”

Thanks!

Bonanza Jellybean:
“If I have sex with Jesus and we are not married, then is that considered a sin? Therefore, would Jesus be condemned to hell?”

I’m no theologian, but I’m pretty sure this is one of those “Could God microwave a burrito so hot that even he couldn’t eat it?” type of questions. I’ll take a shot at it anyway. Looking at the Bible we see from a historical context that Jesus didn’t really have sex with anyone, and unless you’re one of those crazy Dan Brown sycophants I think this goes generally undisputed. However, Jesus was fully human as well as fully divine (according to the mythology of Christians) and it’s because of his human abstinence from sex that I believe the current link between abstention and purity has come to exist. So I’m pretty sure that married or unmarried, Jesus probably wouldn’t be putting out, so the issue of Jesus going to Hell is moot. However, if Jesus for some reason did have sex with you (ignoring the fact that he’d probably be banging supermodels so hot that even God couldn’t have an orgasm and the whole 2000 year difference) he probably wouldn’t go to Hell because in the end, he’s Jesus, and he gets to make up the rules.

Besides, everybody knows Jesus prefers blowjobs.

More tomorry.

Some answers

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on April 23, 2007 @ 8:19 am
in art, atheism!, beer, food, horror, i am so fucking awesome, jesus is fo' shizzle, money, necrophilia, nog, sex and zombies
. 8 Comments

It’s Me… Maven:
“Hypothetically speaking… If one were to shave their taint and then get a tattoo of buddha, Jesus and Mohammed in flagrante with Mother Theresa, would that be a sin? What if they were caricatures instead?”

I’m not sure what a shaved taint has to do with it (did Tina Turner write that song?) unless of course the tattoo was being applied to the aforementioned area of hairlessness. In any case, it would be a sin if you were Jewish, I guess, because I know they’ve got some rules about tattoos and piercings, but really I don’t think an atheist is the best person to ask about what does and does not constitute sin.

Alan:
“Ok, since you insisted, here’s my necro question:
Could you please list all the permutations of necrophilia? I feel I’ve forgotten some.”

You are an idiot. Also, the many permutations of necrophilia include necro-bestiality, necro-incestuality, necro-erotica, and pretty much any and all sexual contact with real or pretend dead people or animals.

johnny dollar
“i have a ‘90 subaru legacy w/ +200k miles on it. once the car has warmed up after an hour’s drive, when i come to an intersection to stop, the car will shut off. it starts up right away and keeps running until the next time i stop, and then it dies again…any ideas about what might be the problem?
thanks!
oh wait… is this not car talk?”

As far as your first question, I’d advise you to lubricate the reverse reticulator valve while disengaging the Johnson coupler on the flange capacitor. This might be a euphamism.
As for your second question, yes, this is Car Talk. See the answer to your first question for proof.

Poppy
“Are you gonna eat my brains in July or what?! Cuz I’m not coming to MD if my brains won’t be ett.
My real question: If you had to choose between eggnog and all other alcoholic beverages which would you choose and why?”

No, I will not eat your brains. Brains are gross. I will eat your kidneys.
This is a good question, but after a few seconds of thought I realized that there is a beverage that I love more than eggnog: beer. There’s no way I could blog about beer though, because I’d never get anything else done, I love it that much. I’d much rather never have eggnog again than never have beer again.

miss kendra
“i have gone over it 892573459 times, and yet my checkbook is still off by $10. why?
will my ankle/foot ever function properly again? because i have lots of pretty heels i’d like to wear.
what is the reason for the season?”

1) Either your bank is sloppy, or they reserve $10 as a minimum amount to have in your account. Stop using banks, start burying your money in the sand at low tide.
2) Yes, because no one should be forced to live without being able to wear a pair of leopard print kitten heels.
3) Beer. See Poppy’s question.

That other Lori
“Why do you hate America, ACW?”

The reasons are almost to numerous to count:

The foreigners
The citizens
The old
The young
Minorities
The majority
Republicans
Democrats
Walmart
Jesus
Et cetera

But really, the number one thing that makes me hate America are all the freedoms. I particularly hate the first amendment. What? Blog?

That’s all for now. Tune in next time as the questions devolve into cartoons I was watching as a kid.

Ask the ACW

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on April 16, 2007 @ 11:35 am
in i am so fucking awesome, money, music, necrophilia, travel and work
. 44 Comments

It’s been wicked-retarded busy around here recently, due partly in fact to me getting a promotion. w00t to more money, un-w00t to more work. It’s why I’ve not been answering your comments like I normally do. Anyway, I’m also out of the office this week as of this evening, and I won’t be back in the office until Monday. I do blog from work, but it’s usually 15 minutes in the mornings before anyone else gets here, so I won’t be doing anymore blogging until Monday. In the meantime, you can ask me any type of question you’d like in the comments and I’ll answer them all to make up for the recent lack of comment response when I get back.

Just as a reminder, I personally find necrophilia (and all its permutations) revolting, but I think one should be able to do as one wishes with another person if they’ve got some sort of post-life sex agreement worked out with the other. I still expect to get at least one question from each of you about this. Because you’re idiots.

Anyway, if you’re having trouble thinking of a question you can use the Paradigm Shifts section over there on the right for topic ideas. I also have some music to play in lieu of the “Jeopardy!” theme. My friend Justin wrote it. You will add it to your playlists, I guarantee.

Please right-click and “Save as”:

Thinkin’ music.

I hate motivational speakers

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on April 13, 2007 @ 10:47 am
in bitches, work and zombies
. 33 Comments

Yesterday I was at a conference for work, and it featured an absolutely terrible motivational speaker. This is not to say that he wasn’t motivating people. He certainly was. I just don’t fall for that touchy-feely wrapped in a cutesy-wootsy saying bullshit. I think it’s insulting to my intelligence and takes a very ham-handed approach at simply explaining something as complicated as your fucking life.

Wow, I got pretty angry fast.

Anyway, I’m sitting there with 500 other people, and the guy starts telling his little stories, and everybody is getting into his mindset. I’m sitting there looking around and he’s got them all totally entranced. It’s like staring a bunch of zombies in the face. Glassy eyes, glazed over expression, mouths hanging open slightly in order to anticipate whether they should laugh or cry. He is a fucking puppeteer and they are all bending over and begging to have his arm up their asses.

So while he’s talking he’s walking around and touching people. At first I think he is trying to shake hands with every person in the room as he is telling his stories, but then I realize that he just wants to touch everyone. Just place a hand on their shoulder or touch their arm as he’s walking by. He’s getting closer and closer and closer to our table and he’s touching everyone as he passes. People are dying to be touched by this guy. They’re leaning toward him so they can get a better grope and I’m trying to force him to die with the power of my mind.

But he isn’t dying, and he just keeps getting closer. Then he’s two tables away and I realize I can smell him.

He must have had his sweat glands replaced with bottles of Old Spice, because he fucking reeks of the shit, and before I realize it the stinking old fucker is putting his hand on my shoulder. He’s still telling his stories, but he steps away and blows his nose into a handkerchief, and then puts his filthy fucking hand on my coworker’s back. I am repulsed. I want to set him on fire before running away and burning the skin off of my hands in bucket of acid.

He’s walking around again, still touching people, still blowing his nose, still dropping these cutesy sayings throughout. The woman sitting next to me and my coworker is writing all his shit down while dabbing her eyes with a napkin.

He reaches the end of the room and he turns around, and I can already tell that he’s heading back to my table. He touches someone and says with an air of wisdom, “You can give someone permission to have ambition,” or some other such bullshit and I can feel my brain begin to try to destroy itself. He touches someone as he gets closer and says that someone’s kindness to him was “Tattooed on my spirit.” It takes all my power to not vomit my intestines on to the table. He touches more people and tells them “You. Are. Worthwhile.” People start to cry. I wonder if swallowing a fork will kill me, then realize it will, but it’ll take too long. He touches more people and moves closer, like a bastard fuck-child juggernaut of germs and Chicken Soup for the motherfucking Soul. He says, “You can give people the keys to start the engine of their success.” I realize that self-immolation is beyond my mental capabilities.

Then he reaches me. And he touches my shoulder.

“Make every day the best day of your year.”

Touching.

“Take the baton of life and run with it.”

Touching.

“Treasure each day!”

TOUCHING.

I make no effort to conceal the revulsion on my face, but the zombies don’t even notice. They’re just lapping it all up. Suckling at his withered old teat of banality and Oprah-esque nonsense.

Hours later his small-group follow-up session is overflowing with sycophants, and in my car I realize my suit still smells like Old Spice.

Recommend a roofer?

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on April 11, 2007 @ 8:53 am
in suhmuhmuh bitch
. 23 Comments

And now for the most boring and mind-meltingly dull post in the combined history of acw.com and acw.blogspot.com:

Do you know a good roofer in the Baltimore and/or Glen Burnie area? I need an estimate.

Now I’m off to shoot myself for becoming the poster-child of suburbia.

Really, I’m not challenging you.

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on April 9, 2007 @ 11:13 am
in bitches, potty humor, suhmuhmuh bitch and work
. 26 Comments

I didn’t want to have to write about the toilets at work again. I really didn’t. But it seems like someone is conspiring against me and my right to go to the bathroom without having to wade through a pile of someone else’s feces.

After last week’s “Hardy Boys and the Case of the Erupting Toilet-Volcano” I figured that I wouldn’t have to write about the bathroom again for another two or ten years. But this morning I was foiled.

I walked into the bathroom and found one of the two stalls occupied. Coincidentally, the stall that had been so thoroughly violated last time was available, so I opened the stall door expecting to see naught but boring tiles and an empty toilet. I don’t know why I could ever hope for something as simple and hygienic as that. Instead I found a soup of thick, brown water and a critical mass of toilet tissue. It’s okay, I’m gagging right now too.

The toilet had been in perfect functioning condition since the exorcism on Thursday and the power-washing on Friday morning, so the incident from last Monday seems unrelated to the incident today except that someone has now brutally molested this hapless toilet for the past two weeks.

Learning my lesson from last week I decided to not stick around and let my eyes wander to find who knows what kind of unholy, physics-destroying, gravity-defying fecal spatter-trajectories had painted the walls after Satan’s ass-cannon had blown itself apart in localized firestorm of pandemonium and digested Spaghettios, so I made my way to the bathrooms upstairs.

Upon arriving I found the first toilet had been peed on. “But ACW,” you smugly say to yourself because I’m writing this at 10:47 and you’re reading this at some point after that and it would be impossible for us to talk unless you’ve somehow mastered the use of the space-time continuum and if you have why haven’t you shared this ability with me yet, jerk?, “urine is sterile. You could have just wiped those few drops off the seat.”

Let me tell you something Smartypants, there is not enough toilet paper in the world to wipe up that stall. I don’t know how someone got their horse into the second floor of an office building, but that horse has terrible aim. Unless, of course, that horse was aiming for the seat, walls, floor, and everything else but the bowl of the toilet, because it was everywhere. You can sit in a swamp of somebody else’s urine if you want. That’s not how I roll.

The stall next to the golden-shower-on-steroids had also been destroyed by someone, and at this point I’m happy to report that it had been simply clogged with unused toilet paper. Clean, white toilet paper was all that was in the bowl, and it was bone-dry. No-one had stolen a metric tonne of steaming manure, stuffed it with dynamite, and used it to speed-plaster the walls of the bathroom. Nobody went on a magical crap-happy pooping-spree, leaving progressively more bizarre articles of clothing wrapped around their own feces in some scat-freak’s perverse version of an Easter Egg Hunt. Nobody ate an entire box of Maximum Strength Turbo-Lax and used the resulting gastrointestinal race-riot to Jackson Pollock every flat surface of the bathroom. It’s still disconcerting that someone would go to all these lengths to irritate me, but there’s about 16 men’s toilets in this building, and I doubt that someone could destroy them all at once.

This is not a challenge.

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