March 2005

March 28, 2005
I like that English vacuum fop, Dyson. The whiny faygo who says, all smartie-like, "I just think things should work properly."

"I just think things should work properly."

"I just think things should work properly."

Bah-bah-bahGREAT.

You dick.

Apparently, gov'nor also thinks vacuum cleaners should cost five hundred fucking dollars. Sweet jesus, that's a lotta cake just to pick up some... cake. (Thank you.) I noticed an offer in Sunday's Best Buy insert for no money down/no payments for two years on a goddamned VACUUM CLEANER.

Prim-n-proper also boasts that his vacuum cleaners don't lose suction over time. Super duper. Let's do some math here. My bagless cost 60 bucks new offa amazon. So I'd have to burn through roughly eight of 'em to equal the cash outlay of one of these Dyson jobbers. Now we're talking suck.

Besides, I don't know that I need to sonically obliterate household dirt and dander with a force greater than a bazillion times gravity. What ever happened to a damp fucking hand towel? Now it's like you gotta drop the friggin Little Boy and Fat Man on your dust bunnies or you're just not coming clean. You better keep those particle-smashing bad boys away from the tassles on your Oriental or you can French-Vietnamese kiss that goddamned rug bye-bye. There'll just be a faint vapor smelling of rug knots and you'll feel strangely compelled to vacuum again in a half hour.

March 25, 2005
The Question of the Week (from the CVS drone who took my prescription for the little girl's ear-infection-slaughtering antibiotics):

"Do you know her date of birth?"

Guess that answers the eternally-burning 'just how much of a fucking filthy-ass crackpimp dirtbag do I look like?' question. Shoulda spake like so: "Hells no! I's have to ax my baby momma."

March 23, 2005
Looks like FIOS is available in my area, and I'm unreasonably giddy. Like Ukrainian yub tebe schoolkid. It's not that I need the extra bandwidth, but for 10 bucks less than what I'm getting cornholed by Comcast, I can get roughly 5 times the speed. Or something. I dunno. With all the "your mileage may vary" disclaimers associated with any ISP it's like the new math trying to figure out just how fast gizmodo is going to load.

Update: After wrastlin' with Verizon's online provisioner (apparently, "Bldg./Unit Number/Whatever" is a phantom required field in their address form), my install date is next Wednesday.

March 18, 2005
I like the fervor over delivering more and more content to ever-shrinking portable devices. This makes sense to me. Like, of course we want broadcast television on our cell phones. I can't think of a better medium for tv than a 1.25" (that's diagonal) screen.

Even the commercials for this retardo-offering can't seem to muster a solid reasoning for it. A basketball player (prolly a famous one. I wouldn't know since basketball players all look the same to me) is somehow shrunk to pint-size (literally), shows up to the Big Game, and his teammate comments, "Oh man. We're dead." (nice line read, by the way) Christina Aguilahahaiera is Barbie-sized and blown across the room by her stylist's hair dryer. A miniature Dijon Sanders is shopping for "bling" and models a necklace that looks like a fucking diamond-studded sandwich board on his minute frame.

So... the takeaway from these adverts is... let's see if I gots this right all up in here... small is, at the very least bad. Ok. And, potentially, plain ol' dangerous. That is, except for when we stream a football game to your itty bitty Nokia. Then, ah, small is, um, good. Right.

I'm holding out, though. I know they can do better. I want my MTV streamed to a fucking pinhead.

March 17, 2005
From Robert Blake: "If you live to be a million, you will never ever in your life meet anyone more blessed than me."

Which translates, not-so-loosely, to: "Oh my god I got away with it! Hey ya! Oh my god I got away with it! Hey ya! Oh my god I got away with it! Hey ya!"

Blake also held forth: "Cowboying is when you get in a motor home or a van and you just let the air blow in your hair. And you wind up in some little bar in Arizona someplace, and you shoot a game of one-hand nine-ball with some 90-year-old Portuguese woman that beats the hell out of you.

"And the next day you wind up in a park someplace playing chess with somebody, and you go see a high school play where they're doing 'West Side Story.'

"And you just roam around and get some revitalization, that there are human beings in the world, that there are people living their lives that have no agenda."

Which, even coming from a fucking psycho killer, is pretty tough to argue.

I blame the suite of CSI programs for misleading the public into believing that every single last atom that composes us and our environment will turn fucking Fredo on us in the crime lab after we pull some illegal shit. You can't even jerk off on a cat without the fear that 500 years from now, some dayworkers in some archaeological-cum-forensic dig will unearth your and your tabby's shrunken remains and with a cavalier glance, intone, "Cat spooger."

March 3, 2005
The Gates, the Gates, the Gates. Whoop.

So much fucking ado about the visual equivalent of a fleet of Tibetan monks hanging their skirts up to dry in Central Park.

So Pepe and LePew battled beauracratic red tape for 200 years, they fought the law and they won, they worked their manicured and sculpted nails to the quick to produce ten bazillion not-quite-golden arches, they cut a hundred gazillion yards of hunter-safe fabric... for... this?

Ah. Really?

Thrill to the Emperor's new clothes, folks.

I should be a bullshit artist and sell tickets to my ironing board. I got orange and then some. Thrill to the faded blues, the less-than-pristine whites, the besmirched khakis, all draped artfully over the sturdy, fabricated steel frame.

Whoop.