Rambling Rhodes

Credit Card Anecdotes

I've never been in debt. Okay, that's not entirely true. Yes, I've been in the kind of debt where I had to make car payments, and I'm currently in the kind of debt that says I have to make house payments.

I've never been in credit card debt, however. Truth be told, I've never even owned a credit card. I don't trust them. I've been conditioned not to trust them thanks to many years of living with college roommates.

Most of my college roommates had this weird outlook on credit cards. Basically, they thought credit cards were magical pieces of plastic that just magically paid for things and that they were somehow immune from the the ensuing debt that came about due to excessive credit card spending.

I'll admit it: I was sort of jealous of my roommates and their magical credit cards. After all, they always seemed to have money and, if they didn't, they just whipped out their credit cards. Books? Put them on the credit card. Food? Put it on the credit card. Night out at a strip club? credit card.

And yet there I was writing checks and budgeting like a fool. I remember thinking that I was doing everything all wrong. I mean, there I would sit, meticulously lording over my finances, while my roommates went waltzing all over town swiping their credit cards with the careless glee of a six-year-old with a loaded pistol.

Then, one year, I was a roommate with a guy named Chad. Chad was actually a former high school classmate of mine. He was, and is, a tech-head. He's one of those guys who was born to know technology. Way back in elementary school, he taught me how to write simple programs for the Apple IIc, and he always just seemed to know everything about computers.

But he didn't know shit about personal finances. He whipped out any one of his many credit cards with the swiftness and ease of a Old West gunslinger. By the time we became roommates, he had already accrued over $10,000 in credit card debt.

I remember thinking what an incredibly large amount of money that seemed to be, especially when I factored in the understanding that he also received financial aid, and that he also worked. Granted, he worked at the local Brach's candy factory on the Gummi Bear line, which paid about as well as you might imagine, but it was still money, so I came to the conclusion that old Chad was a pretty carefree spender.

Well, one day, I popped into Chad's outrageously messy room where I noticed, tucked between two huge bags of pilfered defective Gummi Bears, a credit card notice that was slugged "Urgent!" and another that was slugged "Immediate Payment Required" and still another that read "We Break Fingers And Toes."

Then the calls started coming in, usually two or three a day. "Is Mr. Haugen available? We really need to speak with him." No, he's not here. "Are you sure you're not really Mr. Haugen?" Yes, I'm sure. "Well, when he comes in, have him call Mike at Discover immediately." *sound of shotgun cocking* Will do.

Chad was masterful when it came to avoiding creditors. He always seemed to leave the apartment just two or three minutes before a creditor called. It was like he had some sort of sixth sense. Which was all fine and dandy, except that I ended up being the intermediary between Chad and the creditors, so I got to absorb all the impatient anger and suspicion of basically every credit card company on the planet.

It was the day a creditor appeared, in person, at our doorstep that I realized Chad's debt situation was probably more dire than Chad cared to admit. There was a knock at the door, I answered, and a gentleman in a suit that looked both impressive and threatening stood before me. He asked to see a Mr. Chad Haugen, at which point I heard a little scuffling emanating from Chad's room as Chad scurried out the back entrance which, conveniently, was located at the far end of his bedroom.

We chatted together, the ominous creditor and me, for about an hour, waiting for Chad to get home, even though, of course, there was no way in holy hell Chad was going to make an appearance while that guy was in our apartment. I even had to produce my ID, so the creditor was satisfied that I wasn't, in fact, Chad Haugen.

After that, I believe, Chad ended up getting a loan from his parents, or somebody, so he could pay off his credit card debt at least enough to keep the creditors at bay. He eventually got a job working at IBM, which was a long-assed commute from Winona to Rochester, but paid a whole lot more than the Gummi Bear line.

As for me, Chad's experience with credit cards pretty much scared me away from plastic for good.

She. . . Just. . . Won't. . . Die!

Soooo, go read the comments from my Nick Coleman post. Pay particular attention to commenter #6, Deb.

Then go to her site. And view the picture to the right.

And, well. . . will Plain Layne ever totally go away?

In A Galaxy Far, Far, Away, Another Terri Schiavo

Greedo needs your help.

Of course, the life of a tauntaun isn't valued as much as a Rodian bounty hunter.

Nyooooooooo!

You might be a Sand Person if. . .

My Political Statement For The Day

A Pre-Emptive Nick Coleman Column

Based on this bit of news, I figured I'd be a nice guy and write a Nick Coleman column so Nick doesn't have to. You're welcome, Nick.

Light Rail Claims First (Of Many) Walking victims
Ventura's Folly A Scourge To Downtown Pedestrians
By Nick Coleman

The light rail tracks near 26th Street and Hiawatha Avenue S. in Minneapolis should still retain the gleaming glint of new steel but, alas, today those tracks are stained crimson by the blood of an innocent. Their only possible crime? Walking. You can't even walk nowadays without getting hit by a train, it appears.

And if you're poor, your chances of getting hit by the 5 p.m. Express are even better, because poor people are outside more, doing those outdoor things poor people do because they're poor. You could bet your jodhpurs that a modest bump up in taxes could prevent people, especially poor people, from getting hit by trains, but don't expect those fat cats in St. Paul to do anything like that.

Take heed, Minneapolis pedestrians, because the next train you catch could be your last. That faint "I think I can, I think I can," you hear riding on the winds may be the local #5, and what it thinks it can do is, it thinks it can kill you.

I stood idly by on that hallowed spot where the life was snuffed so cruelly from the now-broken body of the Unkown Pedestrian. The trains continued to whip past at 55 mph, their conductors refusing to even slow down out of reverence for the fallen. No time for the dead. The dead can't pay for train fares, so who cares about them?

As I stood there at that fateful crossing, a light mist washed over my face, as if God alone were weeping, when trainloads of commuters can't be bothered with such a somber observance. Places to go, you know. People to see.

The Unknown Pedestrian, however, will go to no more places, or see any other people.

I watched God's tears trickle down into the gutter, into the storm water drains that everyone has to pay a fee for now, which makes me mad for reasons I'm not entirely clear on.

While lost in thought, which isn't tough for me, because thought is such an unfamiliar locale, I was approached by an individual who asked me if I had a light for his cigarette.

No doubt he was going to go into one of those bars that isn't supposed to allow smoking, and smoke his little smokey smoke while not thinking adequately enough about the poor and the Unknown Pedestrian. He must not have realized he was talking with a Star-Tribune columnist, someone who knows stuff.

I didn't have a light for the cigarette-weilding lung assassin, but I engaged him in a little conversation. It turns out that Puffy McSmokesalot was actually Randall Simmons, 37, a nightwatchman for a local TCF Bank affiliate. I imagine that Simmons is probably on good terms with those wingnuts over at Powerline. Man I hate those guys, with their small manhoods and big cushy jobs. I'll never be their monkey. I'm nobody's monkey.

I asked Smokey Simmons about the Unknown Pedestrian who had been struck down and thrown 30 yards by a hunk of commuter metal that Governor WrestleMan Ventura shoved down Minnesota's throat all those years ago.

"Somebody died here?" asked Simmons in bemusement, sucking a long drag off his death stick, its cherry tip glowing like the hot tip of a lit cigarette. "Huh, I didn't know that. Bummer man."

Bummer man, indeed.

Mark my words, people of the Twin Cities--and you know who you are, because you live in the Twin Cities--there will be a lot more bummer men slated for the slab thanks to the rumbling commuter death wagon that is the Twin Cities light rail system.

All aboard, my faithful reader. All aboard.

UPDATE: It appears even I can't write Coleman copy quite as "uniquely" as Coleman can. From Coleman's column today:

What have we learned, class, about free speech after listening to Coulter call Democrats traitors to the country, threaten to give a Muslim student's name to homeland security and toss insults faster than a kid with a Dixie cup full of fish parts can toss herrings at a seal exhibit?

What the hell?

Inevitability

Ever since I was moved back into the main IBM Rochester building, I've been expecting to bump into my previous manager, Jenifer, who, as I've discussed here before, is quite probably Satan's mistress.

Anyway, I finally bumped into her today as she exited, and I entered, the cafeteria. It was one of those icy encounters where you can actually feel the air stiffen slightly. She gave me a glance that said "I can't believe someone hired you," while I returned a glance that said, "I can't believe somebody hasn't killed you yet."

I did manage to say "Hey, Jenifer," while she didn't say anything at all, so I guess that means I'm the better person, or something.

Jedi Poetry

Not that I have enough of a readership to warrant a poetry contest, but I figure, "so what?"

Your mission, should you choose to accept it: write a Star Wars poem, in anticipation for the upcoming Episode III Revenge of the Sith. It can be in any form, including haiku, limerick or whatever other form you come up with. The winner, selected by me, based on whatever ridiculous criteria I want, will receive. . . well. . . nothing. Except for the eternal glow of knowing that I chose you as a winner, which counts for a lot. I'll start things off:

There once was a young lad named Anakin,
Who, thanks to Lucas, was almost a mannaquin
With his Jedi man meat,
He gave Padme a treat,
And out popped Leia and her whiney-assed twin.

------------------------------------------------------------

He kills young and old
And is the emporer's bitch
Vader's a pussy

------------------------------------------------------------

Oh, and if my comment filter won't let you comment, e-mail me at yossarian9 (at) hotmail (dot) com, and I'll post your unedited submission.

UPDATE: Thanks to a heads' up from David, we can also now enjoy Darth Vader's own personal blog. Some of the comments, I have to say, are a freakin' scream.

------------------------------------------------------------

There once was a droid named Threepio
Who whined more than The Matrix's Neo
We were often annoyed
With this protocol droid
But he's still better than Caption E/O.

Although some might think me uncouth
What I say is just a simple truth
If I ever met Lucas
I'd kick his damn tuchas
And say, "Thanks for destroying my youth!"

If you wonder what sparked my outburst
It's changes he made for the worst
His "special edition"
Had left me wishin
They didn't make Greedo shoot first.

Author: David, a.k.a. Ted Rall.

Don't you just hate when that happens?

Ryan says: Funny thing is, if you take away the earring, you could almost SWEAR that's Vits.

Caroline says: Um, that guy is kind of large.

Ryan says: Oh, I was assuming that the back part was the back of his chair.

Ryan says: More to the point, you don't think 6'6" is large?

Caroline says: check out his arms

Caroline says: I meant, beefy

Ryan says: I don't know. They look like Vits arms to me.

Ryan says: Maybe not as long.

Caroline says: You couldn't pick Vits' arms out of a lineup ... of .. arms

Caroline says: an armup

Ryan says: Up in arms.

Caroline says: This guy's arms are just beefy looking. Not like Marc's arms at all.

Caroline says: and, by "beefy," I mean fat

Ryan says: I know what "beefy" means.

Caroline says: I'm just saying.

Caroline says: You said something about them being long.

Ryan says: Vits has long arms.

Caroline says: I know, but not beefy. Like this guy.

Ryan says: If Vits were to bury his head in his arms, they'd take on a beefy appearance.

Ryan says: You know what I hope? I hope it turns out that this guy actually IS Vits.

Caroline says: No, I don't think beefication would occur if he were to bury his head in his arms.

Ryan says: The scrunchification of his head pushed against his arm would totally beeficate the appendage.

Ryan says: So there.

Caroline says: But he's not resting his head against his left arm, which has been beefified without scrunchification.

Ryan says: That's not the debate. We're talking about the scrunchificationess of Vitse's potential beefitude.

Caroline says: His potential beefitude doesn't lie in his arms or legs. Lankification has taken affect.

Ryan says: Lankification can still be nullified by the appropriate amount of scrunchification, thus creating a beefified appearance.

Caroline says: There would have to be a perfect ratio of lankification to scrunchification in order for that to happen.

Cycles

I remember a time, not that long ago, really, when regular unleaded fuel was hovering just about $1 a gallon, and sometimes even dipping below the $1 mark. Good times. And we're talking just a few years ago.

So SUVs became this huge deal. Sure, they average 1 mile per gallon on the highway, and zero miles per gallon in the city but WHO CARES, because gas was soooooo cheap.

And thus the SUV market boomed, culminating in the most useless vehicle on the road: the Hummer. Nothing screams worthless status symbol to me worse than seeing a Hummer navigating a city landscape. I mean, seriously, COME ON.

And so now the price of gas is very high, higher than I can even remember. And there's this part of me that thinks, "even I could see this coming."

But, there's also a part of me that realizes that some good can come from high gas prices.

Until, of course, hybrid cars drive the price of gas back down, and everyone starts buying SUVs 2.0, and the cycle begins anew.

Yeah, it's a simplistic world view, but that's how I see things. I'm simple like that. Simple like Wanda Nara.

Missed it by that much

For those who don't know about an Instalanche, it's what happens when this guy links to you, and what happens next is a phenomenon during which an outrageous number of page hits ensues. They say that the influx of visits is so monstrous and sudden, even Site Meter has a hard time keeping up.

Today, I was one degree of separation from scoring the coveted Instalanche.

Instapundit linked to this particular post from this particular blogger.

The post right below the linked post linked to one of my recent entries.

The result? 883 page views by 6:22 p.m. Not bad for a Sunday. Not bad at all.

Someday I'll get that Instalanche directly. Some day.

Penis Power

So, the ACLU is willing to step in to defend high school students' right to wear "I (heart) my vagina" buttons.

Just curious here, but if a bunch of male students start marching around that same school with "I (heart) my penis" buttons, what do you think the overall reaction would be?

Yeah, I thought so.

I'm not saying the ACLU wouldn't come to their defense (David). My suspicion is, however, that the public reaction to boys wearing penis pins would be substantially less supportive. Again, that's just a hunch.

Here these girls are wearing the pins "to spark discussion about violence against women, about women's rights," which seems to me to be a nice way of saying "Hey, men beat women and keep us down." Now, if boys were to wear penis pins "to spark discussion about how most (American) men don't beat women, and how men are more and more often being portrayed as blundering dorks," I don't think they'd be taken very seriously and, in fact, would probably be reprimanded by school administrators.

UPDATE: As a cool aside, I used to compete in wrestling tournaments at that school. I didn't wrestle very well, mind you, but I did compete.

I also graduated from Winona State University, or something.

Contrarian

My father is a bit of a nay-sayer. When it comes to saying nay, he's amongst the world's best. What I mean is, he enjoys disagreeing with people just for the sake of disagreeing. You could tell him "Air is necessary for breathing," and he'd take an opposing viewpoint.

Growing up, I got seriously annoyed at times, because my dad could maintain a debate until I wanted to mash my own face with a cupboard door. It damn near drove me out of my mind, and he still does it, from time to time, either out of amusement, or just to get a rise out of me.

And, true to form, I've turned out exactly like him. Except I'm even worse, because I just do it practically by reflex, whereas dad at least can control when he does it. I'll find myself within a group of friends, and suddenly I realize that I'm arguing with them just for the sake of argument. And the worst part is, sometimes I'll find that I don't even agree with my own position; I'll play the Devil's Advocate for no good damned reason.

It's just now becoming clear to me how much this behavior permeates my Internet debating. I was looking through some of my blog archives last night thinking "Dude, I don't even believe that, but I was making a convincing case FOR it."

The point, as far as there is one, is that I have to be more careful with this behavioral affliction, or I'll wake up one day and realize I don't even know what I believe any more, beyond disagreeing with everything everyone else says. I'll be an unbearable old person if this trend continues unabated.

Here's a list of famous women I'm posting to boost Web traffic: Christina Aguilera. Jessica Alba. Lindsay Lohan. Tina Fey.. Carrie Ann Moss. Kate Hudson. Summer Glau. Jennifer Love Hewitt. Jennifer Connelly. Christina Aguilera. Jessica Alba. Lindsay Lohan. Jessica Alba. Jenny Garth. Jenny Garth. Alyssa Milano. Alyssa Milano. Kate Hudson. Summer Glau. Jennifer Love Hewitt. Jennifer Connelly. Evanna Lynch. Evanna Lynch. Evanna Lynch.

DeLay Tactic

I can't say I know much about Tom Delay's alleged transgressions.

However, when your own party starts to distance itself from you, chances are good you have one foot in the political grave.

Can't Somebody Else Do It?

I've been feeling remiss about not fisking a Nick Coleman column for some time. But then I sometimes forget that Coleman is bashed elsewhere as well.

Sour Grapes

Back when I was in about fourth grade, my class was assigned a somewhat unique project. We were divided into groups, ranging from two to four students, and we were given one of Aesop's Fables to memorize and act out.

For those unfamiliar with Aesop's Fables, they're a collection of little moral stories, supposedly gathered by an individual with the unfortunate name "Aesop," that usually consist of anthropomorphic characters. For example, there are such fables as "The Lion and the Mouse," "The Ant and the Grasshopper," and the eyebrow-raising title "The Man, the Boy, and the Donkey."

My group consisted of myself and one other classmate, Chris. We were assigned the fable "The Fox and the Grapes," which consists of a fox jumping repeatedly for grapes that are just out of its reach, before finally giving up and declaring that the grapes are probably sour anyways. The moral of the fable? "It is easy to despise what you cannot get." Which is only partially true, because I know that I'll probably never "get" Salma Hayek, but I certainly don't despise her. Not by a long shot.

As you may have guessed, I was the fox in the "Fox and the Grapes," so it was my responsibility to repeatedly leap into the air, grasping for grapes just out of my reach, and then fall clumsily on the ground.

It's at this point that things started to get interesting. After our groups had memorized and could adequately enact our assigned fable, we were told that we were going to perform our little skits for other elementary classes. Those classes would then vote on their favorite Aesop Fable skit. The top two groups would then perform their skits in front of the entire school assembly in the elementary gymnasium. Lo and behold, Chris and I came in second.

Now, an important side-story to this tale was unfolding during that same week. My mother had recently purchased a new batch of underwear for me, which is always a good thing. Unfortunately, the underwear my mother purchased featured little fire trucks and dalmations and all sorts of other little decorations no young elementary boy would be caught dead sporting on his underwear.

One of the activities the boys in my class engaged in was a competition to see how far away we could stand from a urinal while still successfully urinating in said urinal. Some of the boys in my class were god-like when it came to this pastime. They could stand six feet away and still maintain a perfect stream to the urinal. I wasn't that powerful, but I enjoyed the competition.

Well, knowing that we'd probably be doing urinal competitions later in the day, and because I didn't want to endure any ridicule for my fire truck emblazoned underwear, I ducked out of class early in the morning, went to the bathroom, and divested myself of my underwear. Better to go commando, I thought, than be caught wearing "panties."

Unfortunately, Chris and I came in second place that same day with our "Fox and the Grapes," skit, so please see if you can guess where all of this is going. There we were, Chris and I, standing in front of the entire school assembly, performing our runner-up, Academy Award-winning Aesop Fable. I was determined to be the best darned fox leaping for grapes that I possibly could be.

I leapt for the grapes, and came crashing dramatically to the ground.

Again I leapt. Again, I crashed to the ground.

Yet another powerful leap for those tantalizing grapes. Another miss. Another sorry squat as I fell to the floor. . .

And you could have heard the seat of my pants split if you were living in Oregon.

I sat there on the floor, as the sound of my pants splitting echoed through the gymnasium one last time, feeling the cold gym floor tile pressed against my exposed right butt cheek, and I pondered my situation.

I had split my pants before. I was a growing boy, after all. These things happen. But during those other pant splitting episodes, I had at least been wearing underwear. Heck, if you're wearing underwear, splitting your pants could actually be kind of funny. But, this wasn't funny. Not funny at all.

First and foremost, I had a skit to finish, darn it. Pulling myself up from the floor, I made a valiant effort to keep my rear aimed away from the school assembly. And, although I had two more leaps for those grapes scheduled, I decided to alter our runner-up script just a tad and not do any more jumping. There were a few snickers and giggles coming from students who apparently recognized the sound of pants splitting, but mostly the assembly seemed unaware of my plight.

Chris and I completed our skit, and I exited the gymnasium, sprinted to my locker and grabbed my jacket, which I quickly tied around my waist, thus concealing my exposed behind. All the while, I could hear the assembled students still applauding Chris's and my Aesop Fable re-enactment.

I returned to the gymnasium to take a bow, and no one even questioned why a jacket was now tied around my waist.

We actors are eccentric like that.

Especially when confronted by any one of the following hot ladies: Namrata Singh Gujral. Cerina Vincent. Lauren Lee Smith. Tawny Cypress. Jayma Mays. Rose Byrne. Natalia Tena. Carice van Houten. Sonya Walger. Michelle Ryan. Alice Braga. Kristen Stewart. Katie Leung. Vera Jordanova. Mia Maestro. Ninel Conde. Aishwarya Rai. Aishwarya Rai. Aishwarya Rai. Aishwarya Rai. Aishwarya Rai. Aishwarya Rai. Aishwarya Rai. Aishwarya Rai.

Oh, brother

This has GOT to piss somebody off:

Then again. . .

Be Careful What You Blog. . . Or Don't

Read the comment on this old post of mine.

Honestly, it's starting to get to the point where so many people are finding my blog and taking issue with my ruminations, I wonder sometimes whether it's worth continuing.

I guess I won't be going to a certain dentist any time soon. Unless there's a nude Wanda Nara working there.

When You Care Enough To Send The Very Best

Share a FecalGram today.

Via.

Food Force Five

Personally, I think I'll stick with first person shooter video games, but if you want to feed the hungry via a video game, here's your chance.

Background information here.

UPDATE: Hmm, the link to the Food Force game web site appears to be hosed.

Maybe They Should Have Tried KKKrunch?

Nogger Black?

Stress Test

Last weekend, I finally got around to the distasteful task of putting sheetrock up in the porch, in one of my spring attempts at improving the resale potential for this little house of mine.

I'm not a carpenter. I don't even play one on TV. So, as I walked around Home Depot and looked at all the tools and materials required to adequately hang and finish sheetrock, I felt a little like I was about to perform open heart surgery on a patient after having briefly paged through Grey's Anatomy. I needed more information. To the Internet!!

Thank you, Lowe's!

Thus adequately armed with precious information, I went and purchased 14 sheets of drywall, a hand-held drill and enough drywall screws to likely cover the Sears Tower from top to bottom, with enough screws left over to cover. . . oh, I don't know, my porch. In other words, I have a lot of leftover screws.

After about 45 minutes of hanging sheetrock, I came to a thunderous conclusion, that being that you should never, ever, evernever, hang sheetrock with a girlfriend. Oh, the arguments we had! About nothing!

For example, when I explained to my girlfriend that power outlets and light switches had to be pulled out so that they were flush with the sheetrock, she disagreed. When I tried to point out that putting a faceplate over a square hole cut in sheetrock to cover an outlet buried half and inch back behind the sheetrock, she didn't seem to grasp my point. So, I told her to go inside the house, remove and faceplate of her choice, and report back to me.

"Okay, in this case, it appears you're right," she said meekly from inside the house, after having removed a faceplate of her choosing.

You know, I don't know if there are any sweeter words a man can hear than those spoken by his significant other indicating his rightness and her wrongness. It's just so. . . gratifying.

In my girlfriend's defense, she did do all the measurements for cutting the sheetrock, and she nailed the exact location of all the outlets and switches perfectly. She's a measuring machine. The tape measure is strong in that one. She is one with the tape measure.

But she can't drive screws to save her soul! Here I had purchased a handheld electric drill, with a screwdriver attachment, and she couldn't drive a screw straight into drywall for anything. It was like watching Tim Taylor trying to drive screws while suffering a seizure. I finally had to ask her to hand over the drill and to kindly go measure something.

Such was the weekend for the girlfriend and myself. Dusty, dirty sheetrock hanging, with about 800 small and meaningless disputes and bickerings thrown in for good measure.

The next chapter: mudding and taping. So, if you hear about a serious case of domestic squabbling coming out of Rochester next weekend, you'll know why.

Me and Pandas

Evelyn says: "Lindburg said Bai Yun had displayed signs of being receptive to mating in recent days, including yipping and raising her tail, walking through water and scraping pine tree bark onto her head and face."

Ryan says: Um. . . okay?

Evelyn says: Read this.

Evelyn says: For some reason I found that paragraph particularly amusing.

Ryan says: If you think of it in human terms, it's quite funny.

Evelyn says: Exactly

Ryan says: I've never quite been able to understand the media fascination with panda news.

Evelyn says: Because they're rare and they don't breed well in captivity. They're on the brink of extinction.

Ryan says: All those qualifiers can also be applied to me, but I don't see any news vans following me around.

Evelyn says: I'm not going to go there.

UPDATE: Yes, I did update this post, for readability, and continuity. Sue me.

Jennifer Connelly. Jennifer Connelly. Jennifer Connelly. Jennifer Connelly. Jennifer Connelly. Jennifer Connelly. Jennifer Connelly. Jennifer Connelly. Jennifer Connelly. Jennifer Connelly. Jennifer Connelly. Jennifer Connelly. Jennifer Connelly. Jennifer Connelly. Jennifer Connelly. Jennifer Connelly. Jennifer Connelly. Jennifer Connelly. Jennifer Connelly. Jennifer Connelly. Jennifer Connelly. Jennifer Connelly. Jennifer Connelly.

Demon Hound

Saw the following picture at this Fark thread. I laughed out loud, and then I got really scared.

Still here, just busy

Light posting, I know. I'd prefer to write more, but happenings at work have me just slightly less than terrified. Long story short, I've kind of been promoted, without really wanting to be, and I'm dealing with all sorts of new and exciting job requirements that I honestly don't think I'm qualified to perform.

Oh, and hey, if any of you readers out there are tech-heads in the IBM mainframe/zSeries field, I'm officially the managing editor for a mainframe-specific magazine, and I'll be looking for article authors shortly, if you're interested in helping out a brother.

Anyway, back to hell I go. Warm down here.

I am pretty, oh so pretty

Thanks to Etienne, who really should get a blog, and who really has Photoshop skills that creep me out, we get the following marriage of Rambling Rhodes and ScratchyMonkey.

You know, my right front tooth is fake, but it's not that dark looking. It's nice to have hair again though.

Twinkie Contest

Go ahead, bust a rhyme.

Like Matter and Anti-Matter

What happens when a picture from this blog is combined with this, thanks to this guy?

Ironical

I dislike high gas prices just as much as the next guy, provided that next isn't an oil tycoon, I mean. I hate filling up my car with the knowledge that I'm pumping $2+ per gallon into my machine. In an ideal world, I could take a shit in the tank, and the car would run for 400 miles on that single dump, while only polluting the air with a foul-smelling water vapor. Fart Cars, we'd call them.

I realize that, since I choose to own a vehicle and drive it, I don't have much reason to bitch about the cost of fuel, so I rarely do. I just kind of have to accept it as one of those uncomfortable financial realities I take in the ass in the name of vehicular convenience.

So, yesterday, I was in a local convenience store, buying pop and a pizza, when this guy comes in purely pissed off about something.

"fucking gas prices, man!" he blurted to the clerk as he dug for his credit card. "They're fucking killing me! If prices get as high as I'm hearing, it's going to fucking be the end of me! How do they expect people to live with prices like this? fuck!"

I followed the man in line, purchased my goods, and exited the store.

And then I watched that same angry guy board his black, shiny, enormous, completely impractical Hummer and drive away.

And I had to laugh. Because that was pretty funny, and I had just started thinking about Fart Cars, which is pretty funny too.

Feelings

GIRLFRIEND: What does it feel like to have a boner?

ME: Like you have to do something about it.

Geeking Out

Okay, so, Friday night, I'm logged in and playing Star Wars Galaxies. I'm not doing anything all that interesting, when another player sends me a message:

Gremil: Hey, you on?

Me: Yeah.

Gremil: Wanna do something fun?

Me: Sure, why not.

Gremil: Let's go hunt Great Dune Kimoglia's (GDKs) on Lok (a planet).

Me: They usually kill me right away.

Gremil: Nah, you just need better armor. Here, I'll send you the location of a great armor vendor.

Me: Okay.

*receive location*

Me: I'm at the vendor now. This armor is way expensive.

Gremil: Trust me, it's the best.

Me: Okay.

*I proceed to buy over 600k credits worth of armor*

Me: Ouch. That was spendy.

Gremil: You got it?

Me: Yeah.

Gremil: Cool. Let's go.

*We proceed to hunt GDKs for about an hour, with minimal success and me coming close to dying about as much as I normally would*

Me: I've had enough. I'm going to bed.

Gremil: Alright. Oh, and about the whole armor thing?

Me: Yeah?

Gremil: April Fools!

Me: &@#$*#$*&^@!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now, in an attempt to boost Web traffic, I'll post a name that's been in the news lately: Laure Manaudou. Laure Manaudou. Laure Manaudou. Laure Manaudou. Laure Manaudou.

Pope-Watch

'Last Rites' Not Always Sign of Death

Maybe not, but they're considerably less encouraging than "First Rites."

Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker. Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker. Dark Knight. Heath Ledger. Batman. The Joker.

Pat Bukkake

Via.