Totally Blowing Stuff Up Tuesdays: Technological Destruction

Last week was not so good for me.

As you may recall, the old blog broke. Yes, it came back, but it wasn't an easy battle, exorcising all those demons in there. That, unfortunately, was only the beginning of my woeful travails.

On Monday of last week, my computer at work was infected with spyware. *gasp* Yeah, who knew that surfing around on the internet would lead to such a thing! Not I. I swear! Anyway, I got the one where the wallpaper is replaced with a big black box with red letters that reads "Warning! Do not use this computer. It is infected with spyware. You're a very dirty pervert, and you should be punished. This is only a small way of atoning for your sins, you filthy, filthy man. Buy our product, and we'll completely clean up all this here spyware for you. Convenient, no?"

I may have paraphrased that a tiny bit. However, you get the point.

So, not wanting to pay for their product (which would, undoubtedly, put more Chinese espionage programs spyware on the machine), I decided to run a sweep on my own. The computer already had spybot on it, so I ran that. The program did it's duty and I erased a couple hundred dozen things, and I figured things would be good. Only thing was...the spyware warning wallpaper was still there.

I didn't think much of it. I went home Tuesday night, logging off, hoping that it would be fixed when I logged back on. Maybe it needed that switch in order for the spyware to no longer be there. Except, it was still there Tuesday morning. So, Tuesday when I went home, I shut the whole system down. Maybe that would do the trick.

Wednesday...I couldn't log in to the computer. At all. Well, I take that back. I would log into the computer, and the computer would immediately log me right back out. Uh, not good.

Top that off with a phone that wasn't answering when I would pick up the receiver and would randomly cut off and hang up during the middle of a conversation, and I had one dysfunctional desk. I had to call IT and get them to fix me up, which meant reformatting my computer (but it also came with a memory upgrade--nice!). I was more than happy to hand it over for the day, especially if it meant the computer would run faster.

I had all that going for me last week. Along with getting this site up and running so that I could make the switch as seamlessly as possible (thanks, everyone, for understanding and joining me over here), I was getting a little stressed over the amount of gremlins that were plaguing my life.

But, it doesn't stop there.

Moments after Santa squeezed his fat ass back up my chimney, my dryer, overloaded with Holiday Cheer, up and died. Kaput. This dryer is no more. It was not pining for the fjords.

That, I could deal with. A trip to Lowes and the very next day, one large man and two gremlin apprentices carted off my old dryer (after I, alone, unhooked the broken one and hauled it out onto the deck, by myself!!!) and installed the new one. Runs like a top. Dries clothes. Everything you could possibly want from a dryer.

Not one to be upstaged by dryers or HTML code or computers and telephones, my television has decided to start blinking. At first, it was a short, momentary thing, where the picture would blink down into a tiny, dancing ball of phosphers in the middle of the screen. Now, it's doing it more often, so much so that it's no longer a blink but more like a short nap. Interested in finding out where the picture has gone, the sound is now following it.

This could be the straw on the dromedary's back. On one hand, I have the combined President's Day and Super Bowl deals that I can take advantage of. On the other hand, I really wasn't looking to spend $400-$500 on a new television right now. We were planning on replacing the television later in the year, perhaps as a Christmas present, but now...how can I possibly make it through a day without my daily dose of smug Canadian elitism without viewing Jeopardy? How, dammit, how???

So, I present you this: the cathartic end to a parade of technological wonders kicking me in the nuts and stealing the money out of my wallet--blowing up a computer.

I'm not sure which amuses me more, the epic mullet hanging off the back of the camouflage kid's skull or the dude on the bicycle casually cruising along in the background whilst a bunch of hooligans are detonating the cpu of a computer like it's an everyday occurrence.

Being that the mullet's not nearly greasy enough, I'm going with the dude on the bike.

Dear Weather Channel

Dear Weather Channel:

Suck it.

Do you know what your main role in life is? Here's a hint: it's in your name, and I'm not talking about the word "channel" nor am I speaking of the word "the". That's right! Weather! Perhaps we can sink through that thick concrete cranium of yours yet.

Now, I understand that, much like every other network in the entire world you focus on New York and Boston all the time. I also understand that you're centered in Atlanta, so we get to see that oh-so-exciting weather prospectus for such exotic locales as Macon and Warner-Robins and Screven possibly more than, you know, we should. And then there's the inexplicable "Hey, Omaha, the sun is coming up! Whee!!!" I'm willing to overlook all this because every ten minutes, you show me the local radar, at what time the sun will rise tomorrow, and what phase the moon will be in for the next four weeks.

Ah, see, here's the rub: you're not showing me those things every ten minutes. Instead, I sit through five minutes of commercials for whatever piece of contrite kitsch that the Late Billy Mays would (or still is...eerie) hock in that delightfully endearing brazen and brash fashion of his. When it's not a commercial for the latest and greatest (and shittiest) piece of detritus that I'm opting not to purchase and to clutter up my home, it's a commercial for one of your other shows, which are only peripherally involved in the weather. Or it's a commercial featuring Al Roker.

Mother.
Fucking.
Al.
Roker.

Do you know when Al Roker was last cool? It's when he was interviewed on Space Ghost Coast-to-Coast. And that might have been because I was drunk and maybe had a bit of a contact high: my year in Merlini Hall seems to just fly by (in hindsight). And I'm pretty sure Al Roker was cool only because Zorak called his ass out and subsequently fried him with whatever energy weapon Zorak wielded with impunity.

And yet, here I am, tuning in to see if I have to grab a jacket on my way out the door, and instead of an extended forecast, I get Al Roker's face on my screen. "Aren't I funny?" he says into the camera. "Laugh with me! Hyuk hyuk hyuk!!!" No, you're not funny. Go back to wherever you escaped and stop ruining my weather channel viewing experience!

While I'm speaking of Al Roker, could you have found perhaps a slightly more annoying co-host to go along with his aw-shucks hokum? Yes, Stephanie Abrams is easy on the eye, is probably a nice person, but damn, is there another person on national television screaming to be featured on "What Not to Wear" more than she? Even I can see that, and I can barely dress myself without looking like a clown--a drunken clown at that.

And seriously, if you're going to continue to feature programs revolving around the Stephanie Abrams experience (*shudder*), can you do us all a favor and turn her fucking microphone off. I've heard dogs with diarrhea that are more engaging in conversation than she. Not that I want to say that she's a touch...insipid...but when I hear the word "vapid", immediately her image comes to mind. I hope you've got a good insurance plan for your employees, because I'm sure Mike Bettes goes home every night and drinks himself to the point where he no longer desires the sweet release that opening his veins would provide.

Okay, okay, I might have gotten a bit off track. I originally began penning this letter so that you would stop with the fucking "specialty" programming. Seriously, I spent way too fucking long today trying to catch a glimpse of the immediate weather forecast, and yet all I got was commercials for your shitty shows embedded within those same shitty shows!

And let's discuss these shows, shall we? You call it "When Weather Changed History", but I can only guess that it's because "When Weather Didn't Really Have Much of an Affect on the Somewhat Historical Events Outlined in Our Programs" doesn't have much of a ring to it. But, that would be what we refer to as "truth in advertising". Besides, the History Channel is where I typically go if I want to see documentaries about historical events.

And then there's "Storm Stories." *sigh* This could be about five minutes worth of a show, to be honest. I realize that it's supposed to be about human hardship, so that we feel sorry for our fellow human beings, but after so many minutes of footage of bemulleted billhillies who try to drive their truck through the raging flood waters of the Chattahoochee, the program becomes a touch...repetitive.

(That means "the same thing over and over again", Stephanie).

We won't even go into the failed experiment of showing us weather-themed movies on Friday night. When did that finally sink in that it was a bad idea? After the second showing of The Perfect Storm or the third replay of March of the Penguins? Somewhere, Morgan Freeman is shaking his head, ashamed that he was involved in such a farcical attempt at garnering an audience.

And now, you're springing more shows on us. Not satisfied with drowning inbreds, you've ratcheted things up a level with "Cantore Stories". Apparently, Jim Cantore, perhaps the least charismatic cast member of the Weather Channel's vast array of meteorologists (barring Greg Forbes), will now be interviewing the wives and mothers of those drowned rednecks. Scintillating! Derivative!!! I can certainly see why the seven-day forecast is being preempted for this!

And then there's Weather Proof, which features our favorite socially-inept Weather Bunny, Stephanie Abrams. From what I can gather in the previews (which are often and typically shown in place of the weather I tune in to learn about), this features someone with a giant fan and a wall with a window in it, and they throw shit at the wall and window. Wow! Look! Glass breaks when hit with a terra cotta pot! That's edge-of-my-seat excitement right there. And then, wow, Stephanie Abrams yells out something about how she didn't expect that! Yes, I'll be sure to stop tuning into Mythbusters for this. Can we get Stephanie Abrams to wear a beret like Jamie Hyneman? Preferably shoved down her throat?

In short, please, stop with the shitty "programming". You are the Weather Channel. Please show us weather.

And, perhaps, the occasional mud wrestling match between Heather Tesch and Jenn Carfagno.

Sincerely,

A Weather Fan

P.S. Bring back Sharon Resultan, like, yesterday. And give her some more really tight leopard-print tops.

Fly Away Home Already

So, it occurred to me this morning that, as I'm directing you here to the "new site", I wasn't providing you with anything "new". That's a bit of a faux pas. So, I thought I'd offer up at least a little bit of a story. Think of it as the blog version of everyone warming up their left over spaghetti for Sheriff Taylor when Opie kept screwing up the message as to who invited the sheriff over for dinner.

Mmm...oregano.

You probably didn't get either of those references.

Damned kids these days...

So, remember back in the early part of December when we had that warm snap? You know, before the bottom fell out temperature-wise and my feet developed their own permafrost? Apparently, that was prime time for the ladybugs...er...the ladybird beetles...to rise up from hibernation and invade my house.

Incidentally, here in North By God Carolina, we still have red ladybugs with black spots. In Indiana, those had all been pretty much displaced by the orange and black Japanese ladybugs. You know, the ones with the small boobs and the really earthy smell to them when you crush them. You're familiar with the smell, the one that you can't stand, but after smashing the ladybug and being reviled by the stink, you sniff your fingers again because it smells like victory and death and shame all rolled into one? Yeah, we have those here in North Carolina, too, but we also have a lot of the red-and-black ones.

Anyway, my house is overrun with the little fuckers. I hear them buzzing around at night, clicking against the ceiling in my bed room. Occasionally, I'll feel one smack into the side of my head while I'm sitting quietly trying to read. However, the place where the ladybugs congregate the most? My bathroom.

And, not coincidentally, this is where they die the most, too. Because I kill them, not because my shit stinks that much.

Honestly, it looks like fucking ladybug Ragnarok around my sink, with dead bodies littering the area by the tens. Some are squished. Some simply have been on the lights too long...or something...and they've fallen onto their backs, folding their legs up over their thoraces (thoraxes?) in that typical "I'm a dead bug" fashion.

I guess the silver lining is that my bathroom is now all but aphid free...

The final straw, though, came the other morning. I stripped naked for my morning shower and marathon-masturbation session. When I reached for the soap to scrub my filthy body clean, I started where I always start: on my muscular, masculine chest.

Immediately, something didn't seem right. Instead of cleaning my chest, the soap was making my chest stink, all earthy and musky, and there were hunks of shit in my chest hair. Fuck me running, I crushed a ladybug...er...ladybird beetle...into my chest hair and then proceeded to rub it around. I don't know if it was on me and I'm just that oblivious or if it was on the soap or what...but its entrails and various pieces of shattered carapace were smeared across my chest. I knew that for sure.

This was a violation most foul. Mostly because, no matter how much I rinsed my chest with the showerhead, and no matter how much I scrubbed and re-scrubbed the area, my paranoid and germophobic mind kept smelling the distinctive odor of crushed ladybug. Finally, after I had wasted enough time getting "clean" and I needed to get the kids ready for school, I got out of the shower and toweled off. A visual inspection showed no residual ladybug pieces, but I knew they were still there. Throughout the day, I would catch little whiffs of that distinctive odor. I'd be sitting at my desk and suddenly my upper lip would curl and my nose would twitch, and I'd look around for the offending beast, but I could find none. That's when I knew that I carried the distinctive aroma of dead bug with me all day. *shudder*

So, this weekend will be fraught with peril and pesticides. Or, I could just open the window and shoo them away. Whichever disrupts my intended schedule of lazy and worthlessness less.

Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home...or at least get the fuck out of my bathroom.

What the What?

So, I plop my ass down here in front of ye olde blog and, what do I find? My layout has fixed itself? Or maybe all that shit I did under the HTML editor finally worked.

Or maybe my blog is JUST THAT HAPPY that the Vikings throttled the Cowboys yesterday AND we're done looking at Marmalard Phillip Rivers for another nine months. Jesus, looking at that guy's face is like staring at a pig's asshole.

I wish I had something more to tell you. My blog was lost fucked, and now it's found fixed. Well, at least for me. And Pearl, apparently, but that might be because Pearl is made from stuff like Awesome and Fabulous and Upper Midwestern Hardiness.

Okay, so here, I'll share a little tidbitlet of a story from this past weekend. Because I am a dutiful father--and in no way am I trying to make up for laying on the couch watching football and ignoring my children all weekend--I took my daughter for another turn through the neighborhood trying to sell Girl Scout Cookies.

By the way, do you want some? I'll mail them to you. The commercials during the time outs and such on the football games this weekend told me that I can mail them for one flat rate. Email me if you want any.

So, while I'm out walking up and down the streets, alleyways and drives of my neighbors, I kept thinking of Patrick and Spongebob trying to sell chocolate to the denizens of Bikini Bottom. When anyone would come to the door and my daughter would say "Hello, I'm selling Girl Scout Cookies", it was all I could do not to scream "WE GOT 'EM NOW!!!"

But, here's the thing: We were out for about two hours early Saturday afternoon. In that span of time, we walked to about forty, maybe fifty different houses. Of those forty, maybe fifty different residences, we had five people answer their doors. Five. Five fucking people took the time to get up off their fat asses, ignore the Carolina game, and see what the young, blond girl and her dashingly handsome father wanted.

Of those five, we sold to one guy. Score! 20% success rate!

Personally, I blame Liberty Baptist Church for this. If it wasn't for those cockknockers going around, peddling their "Jesus" to people, and asking them, "If you die today, do you know where you are going?", I'm sure more folks would be willing to open the door and see what's up.

Speaking of which...*undoes belt*...those assholes are about due for another emotional scarring visit to my front porch.

Oh, hey, look: The Vikings just scored another touchdown against the Cowboys. Oh hey, look, Keith Brooking is still a whiny bitch. Boo fucking hoo, Cocksuckers.

UPDATE: Fucking thing broke again. I guess I shouldn't have run an anti-spyware scan on my computer this morning.

Bunch of savages on this internet...

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Vol LVI

So, my blog, she remains a broken.

I've tinkered with the HTML of the layout, but...*sigh*...as you can see, it's to little or, to be 100% truthful, no avail.

I must offer up many apologies for the state of affairs around here. I'm sorry that things won't load all the way, and if that slows your computer down, then I take no blame at all. I'm diverting all the blame to the Chinese and Indian spambots who forced me to constantly switch back and forth between word verification and no word verification. I'm sure they've given my little slice o' the internet the blogospheric version of gonorrhea.

In that light, I'm working on a fix that I should, hopefully, have in place by Monday. Come back then and keep your fingers crossed and maybe--just maybe--I'll have something tidied up around here for everyone.

This is where I'd normally try and stretch the current subject material to correlate and align with some facet of Roman life or Roman history. However, as you might have surmised, the Romans didn't have a lot of computers laying around. In fact, the Romans, while gifted architecturally, weren't so good at math, especially multiplication. Statements such as L x X = D were probably a touch confusing to young Romans (and the Roman version of Barbie). Imagine how long it would take to figure out XXIV x LVII = ?

That's enough to bring me to tears, and I'm the one who wrote it.

The answer is MCCCLXVIII, in case you were wondering.

Yes, I used a calculator to do that.

Despite the lack of computers in Ancient Rome, some people have been able to hammer on the Latin language and make it work for our modern way of life. This is typically termed "dog Latin", and, for some reason, some people look down their noses at it. Apparently, if it didn't come from Pliny the Elder, it's not real Latin in these people's opinions. Bunch of podeces, if you ask me.

Dog Latin or no, let me offer you this phrase, which I've been muttering at my monitor for the past 72 hours or so:

Assume plicam damnatam, o tu moles muscaria muscerdarum!
Pronounced: Ah-soo-may plee-cahm dahn-nah-tahm, oh too moh-lays moo-skah-ree-ah moo-skair-dah-room!

Smithers, what is this 'hovertext' on my monitor mean?

Have a nice weekend, everyone. Except for you, Pat Robertson. What the hell, man?