Now when I'm down some people ask me just when and where my luck did change

On the twelfth day of - "Criminey! It's bloody well the end of July, you jizzswizzler! Don't tell me you're seriously doing this?"
"Apparently I am. Surely you saw a 'Christmas in July' blog-stravaganza coming, didn't you?"
"Actually, we all figured it was just your typical apathy and inability to complete a project. As a matter of fact, we're not going to believe you without some proof. You're just cobbling this post together early in the morning on the last day of July just to look like you're fucking clever, aren't you?"
"Well, that's your opinion. Now if you'll excuse me..." A-hem. On the twelfth day of Crinminey, my magic girlfriend gave to me:

Twelve Memes a Meme-ing

Those of you with absolutely no lives outside of the blogs of the little people that live inside your computer will doubtless remember that I was tagged for a meme by Rachey back in November. The only problem was that she filled it with all sorts of highly personal details that make one want to wipe a small tear from the corner of one's eye and say "Well fuck that. There's no way I can slap together something that will do justice to that with my typical fare of lame anecdotes and boobie jokes. I'll pretend Rachey never tagged me, and it'll all go away."

And that's precisely what I did. The post vanished into the memory hole that is the 4-day attention span of the internet... mostly. But it survived because someone remembered it - more specifically, me. This meme has nagged me for eight months, and by cracky it's time to do something about it.

Ten years ago:
I had recently discovered the joys of a legal drinking age, as well as the excellent speed at which it forces one to drop out of college. Hooray, Beer!

Five years ago:
Shit, I have no idea. The period from 1997 to late 2002 are an amorphous mass of time that has no shape or linear connections within it. This has nothing to do with the burgeoning alcoholism from the previous question, mind you. I remember most of those events very clearly... I just have no real idea as to the order in which they happened.

One year ago:
Why ask me? Check it yourself, bitches.

Five Yummy Things:
1. Anything edible with chopsticks, mostly to show off my bad-ass chopstick skills.
2. Thin-crust pizza topped with pineapples
3. Alyson Hannigan
4. Patricks. (An odd cookie-like thing from Spain, that I discovered when a group of Spanish guys came through the office bearing treats. They have no right to be delicious, yet they persist in doing so.)
5. Just about anything with olives

Five songs I know by heart:(in no particular order)
1. "Dirty Laundry" - Don Henley
2. "Mad About You" - Sting
3. "The Fireman" - George Strait
4. "Baby Got Back" - Sir Mix-A-Lot (although, to be fair, is there anyone from Osiris that doesn't know this song by now?)
5. The vast majority of INXS's catalogue... before they became whores for network TV

Five things I would do with a lot of money:
1. Start my own manufacturing firm in an economically-depressed part of the country. Somewhere that people would appreciate a steady well-paying job and not shove a union up my ass the first chance they got.
2. Upon getting my factory meal-ticket up and running smoothly, I'd pull a Bill Gates and devote most of my time to running a charity. Not sure what sort though, there's so many worthy causes out there.
3. Try and see every country in the world that hasn't been turned into an unlivable shithole by corrupt dictators or islamotard murderers.
4. Not be a self-indulgent fuckstick and blow $20 Mil on a fucking rocketship ride.
5. Have George Lucas abducted and mercilessly tortured until he recants each of the Star Wars prequels, and delivers us the cinematic masterpieces we deserve rather than the commercialized fanboy-spunk he issued forth into the Kleenex known as Hollywood... but I'm not bitter or anything.

Five things I would never wear:
1. Popular "label" clothing that's essentially the same shit you can find at Penney's, only quadruple the price because it has some prick's logo on the tag.
2. Birkenstocks. I don't care if they do make my feet feel like they're doing the tango with magical blowjob fairies, I'm not a fucking hippy.
3. A Croatian policemen's hat, if a lovely young foreign tourist asked to give it a test-drive.
4. A Che Guevara T-shirt

5. Leather pants. Seriously, if I wanted to show off how much of a douche I am, I'd give out my blog's URL.

Five favorite TV shows:
1. My Name is Earl
2. How I Met Your Mother
3. Any televised presentation of the National Hockey League
4. Family Guy
5. My Hero (God bless the Beeb)

Five things I enjoy doing:
1. Reading dumb shit on the internet.
2. Reading intelligent shit on the internet.
3. Um... not having to come up with three other things I'm only pretending to like.
4. Seriously.
5. Oh wait, not eating that weird-ass beet crap that Rachey likes so much. No way I'm touching anything that looks like Gorbachev after a day at the beach.

Five people I want to inflict this on:
I'm breaking the chain in order to free you all of the curse. Earn this sacrifice, because in 10 days I'll face the horrifying form of my destructor. Flee while you can, pathetic mortals!

----

Eleven Psychotic Search Strings
Ten Bowls of Booberry!
Nine Penis-Enlargement Drug Solicitations
Eight Asshole Neighbors
Seven Hours of Dry Heaves
Six A-Capella Wookies
Five Gooo-hoooold Ringtones
Four Minutes of Jibba-Jabba
Three Absolutely Unexpected Violent Incidents
Two Turtle Dentists
And A Hastily-Conceived Blogging Project!



(By the way, thanks for making me do this, Rachey.)

We HEIL! HEIL! Right in Der Fuehrer's face

Been a while since I posted something, I know. Sorry about that... I know there are some of your out there who have started to grow concerned over my absence, wanting to know if you can come out of your shelters and resume your lives... Well tough luck, you rubes! The lameasses posts are flying thick as pea soup today!

OK, actually they're not. It's just this one, which is pretty light at that. But what I lack in quantity, I hope to make up for with quality.


You see, ever since I was politely asked to depart from the Big Blogger 2 Cyberhouse, I've tried my best to keep tabs on my former cyberhousemates. It's not an easy job, believe me. You just try adding 6 new blogs to your daily reading regimen, and see how well you like it.
Anyway, I've noticed that our friend Mark has gotten caught up in the phenomenon known as Catblogging. Essentially, it's the occasional posting of cat-related sites, pictures, or links - typically someone's Mr. Snugglekins dressed up as a yard gnome, or something equally lameassed. But there is the occasional diamond in the rough there.

However, I think I have found the catblogging site to end all catblogging sites. Tremble, yon mortals at the otherworldly genius that is: Cats That Look Like Hitler!

Katzen uber Alles!!

Little monsters in the boat parade

My God, it's full of stars... or perverts. Either way, it's definitely time to recap my search strings.

It seems like everyone hearts them the FuckMan™ post. I got four distinct searches for it in the last week.

Then, there's the continuing saga of the nose zit. The internets love my Shakespearian nasal tragedy so much they hit me up 8 times.

I've also got the requisite snot searches you love so much. Lemme just whip them out:

• orange snot symptoms (twice)
  
• coughing up pea sized phlegm
  
• phlegm chunks
  
  and finally,
  
  
• dog coughing up white mucous (bonus points for getting your dog into the act, you sick freak)
  

Finally, there's the plain weird shit. And the really weird shit.

Shit like "Love kleenex."
And "Batman Rims."
Not to mention "Chinese AK-47s," or "Staying in a shithole in Scotland." Personally, I prefer the Holiday Inn, bro but whatever floats your boat.

Of course, no search string post would be complete without a little glimpse into the dark heart of the internet. Today, I can do that and brag at the same time, because I'm the number one result for both "Soul Sheik," which isn't so bad, and "Towel Fetish Masturbation," which is.
By the way, I got the towel one on two different days. Apparently Hammistan is the towel fucker's clearinghouse or something. Lucky me.

----
Previous search string inanity:
Towels So Cool, They're Hot
Go Through Them Like Crap Through a Google
The Intertron is Spazz-tastic!
It Snot Me, It's Inertia
Eleven Psychotic Search Strings
Listen up you primitive screwheads: this is my GOOGLE!
Zen Blogging
Misspelling Bee
Boobies for the Frog Brothers
Phlegm Redux
The Mystery of Soul Bitches

Big day come and big day go

Quite the auspicious day today, on a variety of fronts.

First off, congratulations are in order to DeadpanAnn and the soon-to-be Mr. DeadpanAnn, who are getting married (to each other, fortunately) in less than 5000 seconds.

Secondly, Happy Birthday to Her Royal Highness, Di, who recently returned from California... where apparently they have weather or something. I wouldn't know anything about that, of course.

And me? I got myself a new toy this week and finally took it for a spin around the house. Yup, I mowed my lawn yesterday... the first time I've done that in over 14 years. I'm sure you'll be pleased to know that yardwork with a 100+ degree heat index is still The Suck.

Time is running out another day is on its way

The race is heating up over at Big Blogger 2. Of course, y'all already knew that because you've followed the competition OH SO CLOSELY! Regardless, at the time of posting there's a tie between Cazzie!!! and Hillbilly Mom in the final eviction.
As much as I'd like to encourage you to vote for my humble self, I've yet to figure out how to get Big Blogger to accept write-in candidates... Maybe I'm using the wrong tube or someone went and gummed up my internet with expired sour cream. In fact, I think that's exactly what's happened here. Therefore, I'm forced to cancel my sour cream account.

Attention Inter-Tubes:

• Please cancel the sour cream.
  
• I don't want the sour cream any more, I don't use the sour cream anymore, just please cancel the sour cream.
  
• I don't know how to make this any clearer, so I'll just say it again: Cancel the sour cream.
  
• Cancel. The. Sour. Cream.
  

----

In other geek-news, McDonald's unveiled a sweet new billboard in Chicago last week. If you happen to be going to Chi-town for a ballgame, mob hit, or other honeymoon-type activities, it's worth it to put the billboard on your itenerary - just get there before noon.

She slammed the door and she gave me the finger

So, I've been a touch sullen and whatnot since I was booted from the Big Bloggah 2 Cyberhouse with the usual class and ceremony. Honestly, I'm not really sure what to blog about now that a big chunk of my posting impetus has been forcibly removed from my blogging life.

The latest confrontation in Civilization v. islamic Fucktards? Meh.
Not that I don't care, don't get me wrong. I care deeply, and it both scares and exhillirates me that Israel has stopped bending over and taking it just to keep the European anti-Semites in the UN pacified. Maybe someone finally found those passages in holly quran about killing all the jews and said "What's up with all this shit? These fuckers don't want peace after all."
It's just that if I start blogging about that, then I'm not sure if I'll be able to stop - if I can even stop at all. Other people, on the scene even, are doing a much better job of it that I can.

I find that a little humor helps me cope. Star Wars geek-outs and Moonbat bitchslaps are the order of the day today. Enjoy.

I'm the one, babe, that you're gonna choose

Holy frickin Crap, Batman, we've got ourselves an elimination vote over here!

Clearly, my clever campaign is to credit for the late surge in votes I'm recieving. Either that, or the internet is just full of penises that have welcomed me as one of their own. Regardless, I'm grateful for all your support. I promise to keep posting the same boring crap you keep coming back here for - and you can bank on that!

If you haven't voted yet, please do so. Remember that this is the inter-web, so if you're dead you can still vote! (even if you don't live in Chicago) Big Bloggah will be closing the polls in less than 12 hours, so act fast.

----
Previous Big Blogger 2 posts:
Theyyyyyyyy're Mediocre!
Infectious Grooves
The Shame of the Monkeybars
Roses Have Thorns: The Kleenex Box Ode
Abe Dawg's Playing Poker
Postcards From the Hedge
Your Friendly Neighborhood Asshole
You can't HANDLE the TRUTH!
Get 'em while they're hot!
Peeping In Windows... Sort Of.
The Attention Span of Modern Thought
Stew-Diddy Goes Electioneering
Friday the Post-teenth
Vote Whoring Two: Electric Boogaloo
Politicians Are All Pricks
A House Only A Cyber-Mom Could Love

Big Blogger 2 - Task # Eleven Eleven Eleven

This week, Big Bloggah has decided to put the cyberhouse up for sale. The lovely cyberhouse that all of us have worked so hard to make livable will be sold off to the highest bidder like a cheap pair of shoes... or Paris Hilton's dignity.

With all the nonsense from moving, I've been light on the blogging - not posting as often or as early as I'd like to. Consequently, Hillbilly Mom beat me to the punch with the sales pitch to beat all sales pitches. Generally, I've always gone into the weekly challenges with the mindset that I would post something that could top anyone else's entry... but not this week. HM has me beat in the "selling the cyberhouse" competition, hands down. So, in true Big Blogger fashion I'll throw in my own twist and write a non-sales pitch, as we look into a posting from the future... all the way from the year 2000.

For Sale, Cheap: Gaudy-assed eyesore in "urban" neighborhood.

This four-roomed monstrocity has recently been condemned by the local zoning board, but don't let that piddling little fact come between you and your dream home! Just imagine all the entertainment you'll have trying to discern if the architecture was designed by a crackhead, a dyslexic baboon, or even Margot Kidder on a bender.

The sleeping quarters leave nothing to be desired by the ursine members of your family. In fact, they'll want to spend half the year lounging about in its cozy warmth. Non-bears, however may take exception to sleeping in a fricking cave. A cave with a portal directly to the inferno, no less. Oh sure, it's a great lark for those of you with small children or stubborn grandmas that refuse to pass on... but why buy when you can rent?

This house is ideal for singles too, because it comes with its own squatter! That's right, folks - the kitchen is currently occupied by Carlos, a swarthy layabout of questionable immigration status who likes nothing more than to relax on the countertops while you're trying to make a sandwich. When asked about his future plans when the cyberhouse changes hands, Carlos told us he might consider going back to school if he could find a new place... or maybe he'd try and get the band back together. At least I think that's what he said, my spanish isn't that great. Does anyone know what "Si, si. Frijoles con queso, por favor." means?

The luxurious seating arrangements and personal home electronics in the living room have long since been looted by the local youths and bogans, though they're on display at a few local trailer parks if you're interested in taking a look. Unfortunately, the sex hammocks are still readily available... along with the lesion-addled occupants who were infamous for their "comforting" skills during the cyberhouse's heyday in the seventies.

Speaking of the seventies, don't go in the back yard. Oh. My. God. There isn't a sufficient amount of smurfs to gag yourself with when you see the hideous Tiki nightmare that has infested itself behind the house. I cound't stomach the place for more than a minute, but I think I saw a vagrant urinating in the hottub... maybe it was the glare off all the colored lights, but I could swear he looked like he'd been dead for a couple dozen years or so.

However, if you're into having grizzled hippies and other crusty types crash in your house with no notice (and less of an invitation) then you'll thrill to the sights and smells of the basement. What was once the private showplace for kick-ass rock & rollers Van Halen, is now a sad monument to their legacy. When Valerice Bertinelli divorced Eddie, the band spiraled into self-destruction and took their playground with them. Occasionally, David Lee Roth puts in an appearance... but it's just a pretense to score herion off the worn-out dregs who crash in this dank hole.

I'm sure you're saying to your self "Self, is this entire house nothing more than a sad collection of dirty broken lives?" Well, let me assure you that nothing could be further from the truth! The toilet is immaculately clean, and while not exactly April-fresh, the cloying odor of Drakkar Noir does make one forget the dilapidated mildew smell of the other rooms.
Yes, the toilet is a sight to perk up the heart of any housewife or mother. however, our lawyers require us to advise you that while you can look to your heart's content, don't touch anything in the room. Even entering the lavatory can prove hazardous ever since a computer glitch caused the automatic cleaning system to develop an acute germ-phobia. It now regards all life-forms as filthy disease-ridden pustules that must be cleansed from the face of the earth... although with the current resident of the house, can you really blame it?

It's a lovely shade of pink though, don't you think?

If you're this desperate to buy, you're obviously a deluded celebrity, location scouting for a porn flick... or both. In any case, make sure your innoculations are up to date and then contact Hammerica Realtors & Pawn Shop at the earliest possible date. Let's close the deal before the bulldozers do!

----
The Rest of The Usual Suspects:
Cazzie!!!
Mark
LanternLight
The Rachy
Hillbilly Mom
TimT
Redneck Diva
Scottage
and the interloper outerloper, Doctor Evil

----
Previous Big Blogger 2 posts:
Theyyyyyyyy're Mediocre!
Infectious Grooves
The Shame of the Monkeybars
Roses Have Thorns: The Kleenex Box Ode
Abe Dawg's Playing Poker
Postcards From the Hedge
Your Friendly Neighborhood Asshole
You can't HANDLE the TRUTH!
Get 'em while they're hot!
Peeping In Windows... Sort Of.
The Attention Span of Modern Thought
Stew-Diddy Goes Electioneering
Friday the Post-teenth
Vote Whoring Two: Electric Boogaloo
Politicians Are All Pricks

We all wonder what's in the conscience of the king

The Eternal Move: Day 16 - A bit late, but here it is. (just be thankful I didn't promise pictures - I've got some I was supposed to take last spring that I still haven't done.)

So I rolled up to the apartment on Monday afternoon after I was finished at work... of course, this wasn't on purpose. The route to my new residence starts out on the same streets as the way to my old one... and I just set myself on autopilot apparently. If only Dr. Rumak had stuck his head in to wish me good luck and tell me he was counting on me...

Anyway, as long as I was there, I figured I'd drop off my keys and pass to the Brigadoon Exercise room, so I could be officially out of that apartment. I managed to do it without too much difficulty, and as a bonus I got the skinny on the window-smasher. Turns out he was just one of the local rednecks that got a little too friendly with the PBR, and went apeshit on his girlfriend's car. Serves her right for looking at him crosswise, I'm sure.

As I left, I took a cruise of the parking lot. The spot where the window-smasher did his deed had glass fragments fricking EVERYWHERE on it. That's right, the parking lot still had broken glass in it two days later... but the Thor wannabe who cleaned up the parking lot during the week would throw my newspaper away if I didn't grab it by 7:30. Lazy fucker.

With any luck, that's the last story I'll ever have to tell about that apartment. But, naturally, this is only the end of phase one of the Eternal Move. There are still a bajillion boxes to unpack, (yes, a bajillion. I counted.) and I haven't even started the rigamarole with MasterCard about Cold War U-Haul fucking me over.

----
Previous posts from the De-Luxe apartment in the sky-hi-hi:
Schrodinger's Crazy-Assed Tire-Slinging Psychopath
The Clams Before The Storm?
The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Hamms
Moving is the Suck

Rumors or rivals yell at the strike force

Looking at the latest poll results, it seems that I'm coming in a distant third. No matter though, I'm confident that I'll snap up a quick 40 or so votes by morning and be right back in this thing... Or perhaps I'll squeak by on the merits of whatever voting twist Big Blogger has up her sleeve.

At least I'm getting a little publicity from Hillbilly Mom. Or is that condescension... I'm not sure. Regardless of her intent, I've decided to stubbornly pretend it's a good thing, even if her accusation of "playing the penis card" makes her sound like a backwoods Al Sharpton. In fact, I can totally picture her dreaming up new slogans for the next round...

"One lump or two? Don't vote for Stew!"
"Stewed Hamm is wrong, don't vote for his schlong!"
"Sonic Cherry Diet Coke is great, so make me your candidate!"
"If the glove doesn't fit, you must acquit!"
"When you go to the poll, vote for my hole!"

Those are all pretty good. There's even a little Johnny Cochrane in there, I see... I guess she got carried away.

So as you can plainly see, my fellow blogospherians, we can't allow dirty campaign tricks like that to prevail in this contest. Cast your vote for Scotland of the Soul, and ensure that an entirely different kind of dirty campaign trick will prevail in the upcoming election! The kind of dirty campaign trick that would drum up the most bizarre reasons possible to compare someone to Hitler. The kind of dirty campaign trick that would take credit for the invention of as many random creations as possible. The kind of dirty campaign trick that would totally scoff at leaving cat pictures in someone's mailbox.

When you step in that voting booth, just remember: They don't call it a poll for nothing. Vote for Stew - the only candidate with a penis!

----

Incidentally, the phrase "penis card" also reminds me of a great joke - I think it's from George Carlin originally, but it's one of my favorites. When he was a boy, his mother would yell at him from across the house, or the other side of a door to "quit playing around in there." And he would respond "Playing? I'm fucking serious in here!"

----
Previous vote whoring:
Let's All Go To The Poles

Ghetto blasters, phony jewels

This morning, I'm finally able to post something I've wanted to put up for a while now. Ever since I discovered that my FuckMan™ keeps a tally of every track's play count, I've thought it would make good blog fodder... just not good enough to mention more than once a quarter, because I'm not really all that self-absorbed.
Anyway, the first quarter is done and "in the can," as they say, and it's time to digest a passel of statistics.

Out of the 770 songs on the FuckMan™, the most played was Johnny Cash's cover of Sting's "I Hung My Head," with 12 spins. "Hurt," from the same album recieved 11, so it's been a Cash-addled spring for me. My favorite song off that album is his cover of Depeche Mode's "Personal Jesus."

The least played song was Tracy Lawrence's "Time Marches On," which went unplayed. Obviously, I can't comment on this, other than to say that it's not intentional. I play the FM on shuffle around 95% of the time, unless I get a particular song stuck in my head. Even then, it just takes a couple repeats and I'm able to move on.
Note that this also doesn't count the Chixie Dicks, who were snuck onto the FM as a prank. I never bothered to delete the handful of their songs because it feels so good skipping past them. Occasionally I even honor the event with a heartfelt "No soup for you!"

The median songs were "Independence Day," by Martina McBride and "Sensitive to Bees" by the Brothers Chaps of Homestar Runner fame. They had 4 spins each.

Hmmm... this recap is looking a heck of a lot more countrified than my playlist would seem. I should add / make up a few more stats to rig this post back to a "representative" snapshot. (you know, like the Census Bureau)

So, I'll mention that the newest song added was They Might Be Giants's's's "Experimental Film," because I watched a bunch of Homestar cartoons yesterday. Strong Sad & The Cheat put out probably the best possible video for this tune, and it's a sad comment on the music industry that they didn't win Video of the Year. Perhaps they should have shot someone, or had a sex scandal in the papers like the Bear Holding a Shark. Anyway, the song has been in my head all day, and I finally found it online tonight. I'd already chalked up 2 spins, before I went back to my typical 95% shuffle listening schedule.
I can't say that I have a favorite TMBG song, really. Practically all of them are good, but Istanbul annoys me because it doesn't mention that the original name of the city was Byzantium, or that the Turks changed the name to Istanbul when they invaded the city, sold most of the Christians into slavery, and started shouting "dirka dirka" all over the place. I guess it's harder than I thought to come up with rhymes for "jihad.'

The song I haven't heard in the longest time is (no, not "For the Longest Time," because that would be too easy... and creepy) "Video Killed The Radio Star," by The Buggles. It's entirely appropriate that this track holds the position, even if I would like to have heard it on a weekly basis.

The song I just finished listening to as I started writing the post is the 9th spin of Iron Maiden's "Duellists," from their Powerslave album, which is quite possibly my favorite metal album. "Aces High," is my favorite Maiden song, but "Flash of the Blade" has the best intro. If I start to feel depressed, I can usually be cheered up a bit by rationalizing that somewhere someone is teaching their kid to like Maiden by playing that intro.

Who needs a house out in Hackensack?

The Eternal Move: Day 15. (Because y'all totally knew this was coming.)

Surprisingly, I made it out of the apartment with no casualties - other than a neighbor's car. Yes, the apartment was still a bit humid, but a truckload of Febreeze solved any smell problems. I went to town on the nail-infested walls with my needle-nose pliers and putty knife. I loaded the carpet cleaner in my car. All is well with the world, or so I'd like to think.
However, I'm not technically done with the apartment just yet. You see, my move out date was on Saturday the 8th. What nobody told me was that neither the management or the corporate offices are open on the weekend... so I've still got my keys, and passcard to the pool area and the mythical exercise room. Currently, I exist in a sort of residential limbo - I don't live there, but then I also don't not live there.

The neighbor's car is an interesting story, though, so I'll delve a bit into that. Right before I started moving, I happened to be reading through the police reports in the newspaper - mostly because there's great small-town brand crazy shit in there. Anyway, I saw my own address listed, with the report that "a woman called and complained that someone threw a tire through her windshield."

A fucking TIRE!

Anyway, fast forward to Day 14, and I rolled up to the complex parking lot. There's a police car sitting there, and the cop is out talking to a woman on the steps. Next to the police car is a car with a big fricking dent in her windshield, and three (3) side windows broken out.
Now, maybe I'm wrong and it's a completely different person's car that just got jacked. In that case there's a psychotic tire-slingin' crazy-ass on the loose, and the only thing slowing them down is the lack of available tires to sling, so I'm glad I almost don't live there anymore. On the other hand, maybe I'm right, and the crazy-assed tire-slinger just got out of the county lockup and came back for vengence... and I'm still glad I almost don't live there anymore.

At the very least, this saga will have a Day 16 to it... I'll let y'all know as the situation unfolds.

----
Previous posts from the De-Luxe apartment in the sky-hi-hi:
The Clams Before The Storm?
The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Hamms
Moving is the Suck

She's looking cool with her hair down... on the fairground

Hullo all! I'm taking a break from all my worries to do a little blogging. (and it sure helps a lot) This outing, I've got more search strings from people trying to be where they can see that our troubles are all the same.
Now if only they knew my name...

First off, there's the standard-issue Orange Snot searches, of which I'm ranked 14th on google as of this posting. Honestly, it just wouldn't be Hammistan without someone hitting up my weird mucus issues from a year and a half ago. Thanks nameless internet dude!

In other searches directly related to my posts, there's Diet Coke & Mentos, Lil'Gabe's Murloc impression, and of course my magnum opus - the saga of my wayward nasal hair. There's also one for quetzalcoatl scotland, which goes all the way back to my third post.

But that's not why you're here, naturally. You're here for the weird shit. The "why in the hell is anyone looking for this" stuff that Rachy does so much better than me. Anyway, I'll post my requisite oddness, to make her look good by comparison... compassion for the sickly, and all that.

First up is Predator costumes in Scotland. Why anyone thinks the cosplays are all that different up in the 44 is beyond me... but there you go.

There's the double-fisted action of chain the soul, and MC soul of Scotland. You know, if nobody's taken those already they'd make kickass stage names for white rappers. I can totally see them fightin' for their rights, and jumpin' around and whatnot. Ain't no question they'd definitely be down wit J-Zeezus.

Finally, there's the refugee from Hillbilly Mom's Library and Mail-Order Service, who was looking for a guide to making scented cool towels. Sorry, but I only have the regular-flavored towels Mac, Also, the only coolness I've got stocked is of the tape variety.

----

In news marginally unrelated to search strings, Perhaps you might consider stopping by the Big Blogger 2 cyberhouse, and showing a little votey lurve for your old pal Stew? Sure, I know I don't have the Lithospheric Misadventures or Biker Hotties like some of my housemates, but consider my many other qualities...

Hmmm...

On second thought, consider what the cyberhouse would be like with an all-female cast...

No, ya damn perv, not like that. Not at all like that. Not even dressed as beer cans, I'm sorry to say.
I think the appeal to my gender is my best chance here. Hey why not, right? I mean 49% of the population can identify with me in that Y-chromosomal way. So you see, guys, you should totally vote for your pal Stew - it's in your genes. And your jeans, for that matter.

Vote Stew - Because You Have A Penis, Too.

(At least it makes more sense than Puffly's asinine slogan)

----
Previous search string inanity:
Go Through Them Like Crap Through a Google
The Intertron is Spazz-tastic!
It Snot Me, It's Inertia
Eleven Psychotic Search Strings
Listen up you primitive screwheads: this is my GOOGLE!
Zen Blogging
Misspelling Bee
Boobies for the Frog Brothers
Phlegm Redux
The Mystery of Soul Bitches

How high is the sky? How long is time?

The Eternal Move: Day 14.

Fourteen. Four. Teen. And with God's help it will be the final day.

I spent most of yesterday deep-cleaning the carpets, while the apartment becae progressively more humid. Even though I had the AC cranked down to 70, it felt at least 10 degrees warmer in there... The AC in that apartment is for shit, by the way. Practically none of the vents even blow air out, and despite the multiple complaints I made to management, nothing was ever really done to fix the problem.
After today however, it shall no longer be my problem. All that remains for me to do is return the carpet cleaner to work, and spackle a few little holes in the wall... what could possibly go wrong?

----
Posts From The Future: The Eternal Move, Day 139. Finally finished re-building the kitchen walls. I had a lot of trouble getting the plumbing right, but I figure it's only got to last until a week or so after I'm gone. After that fiasco with the Saws-all, you'd think I would have learned to watch where I was going, huh?

Anyway, tomorrow I'll get started on the last of the bedrooms, and I should finally be done moving in a week.

----
Previous posts from the De-Luxe apartment in the sky-hi-hi:
The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Hamms
Moving is the Suck

Big Blogger 2 - Task #10-teen

This time, Big Blogger wants to know about the summer of our thirteenth year... such a nosy one, that Big Blogger. Well buckle your seatbelts and keep all your arms and legs inside the blog, folks - it's time to be disappointed.

As much as I wish I had another awexome tale of wacky hijinks, there's really not much to tell about. I remember that I was a junior counselor for a lameassed day camp at the youth center. There was a kid there named "Van," I always though that was a weird name. Oh sure, it would be understandable if he was Vietnamese or something... but Van was Honkey McWhiterson.

I know I've done all kinds of crazy shit over the years with my friends, but I can't specify which ones were the 13 year-old summer ones. And it's not like I don't remember what we did, either. We rehash everything on a monthly basis, telling the same old stories that never cease being funny to us. One of our dads (I think it was Phlegm's) once said that we were the only 12 year-olds he'd heard of that were nostalgic.

Sorry I don't have more to say on this one. I'm up to day 12 of the eternal move... and even though the end is in sight, it feels like it's been in sight for a week already.
Moving is so The Suck.

----
The Rest of The Usual Suspects:
Cazzie!!!
Mark
LanternLight
The Rachy
Hillbilly Mom
TimT
Redneck Diva
Scottage
and the interloper outerloper, Doctor Evil

----
Previous Big Blogger 2 posts:
Theyyyyyyyy're Mediocre!
Infectious Grooves
The Shame of the Monkeybars
Roses Have Thorns: The Kleenex Box Ode
Abe Dawg's Playing Poker
Postcards From the Hedge
Your Friendly Neighborhood Asshole
You can't HANDLE the TRUTH!
Get 'em while they're hot!
Peeping In Windows... Sort Of.
The Attention Span of Modern Thought
Stew-Diddy Goes Electioneering

Saturday could wait, but Sunday'd be too late

The sun has set on the 8th day of my move... and I'm still not fucking done. Yeah I know, I know, that's insane. Well, welcome to my world, folks. Cop a squat, and I'll tell you the story of my eternal move.

The vast majority of my worldly posessions have been packed into small, manageable boxes for a while now. I've been moving a few van-loads of those a day all last week. Enough to keep me on a timely departure schedule from my occasionally hawk-infested apartment, but not so much that my back said "Hey, knock it the fuck off, already!" I planned to be done with that in time to rent a U-Haul truck over the weekend and enlist the aid of a couple friends of mine to move all the big heavy stuff that I couldn't get on my own. A pretty simple plan, I think... but we all know what happens to the best laid plans of mice and hamms, don't we?

Early Saturday morning, like the crack of 8:30 or so, I go to meet my friends Phlegm, Chuckles, & J-Dub at work but it turns out Phlegm is already a no-show. His wife is pregnant and she wanted him to go get her pickles and grapefruit or some such shit... anyway, the rest of us saddled up and we headed over to the U-Haul place.
As we pulled into the lot, we noticed a lot of military surplus equipment, and an RV... (no idea if it was the EM-50) but no U-Haul trucks. What's more, the place was deserted - Lights out, nobody home. This, as they say, was not good. I tried the phone number on the door hoping for an answering machine message with an emergency number, but no dice. So rather than twiddle our thumbs staring at the old Jeeps and other Cold War remnants, Chuckles suggested we pop over to the large U-Haul center in nearby Pollostan, just 5 minutes away. Surely if anyone had a truck available, it would be them.

As soon as I hit the door of the Pollostan U-Haul place, I knew it was going to be bad. In retrospect, I should have just turned around and waited for another day to move my heavy stuff... but so far as I knew, this was the only day Chuckles and J-Dub had free to be my pack mules. There was one guy at the counter, whom I'll dub Counter-Guy (CG), and another guy milling about the back room, whom I'll dub the King of Queens... because that's exactly who he looked like. Being a busy Saturday in summer, the line strectched damn near to the door. Also, because it was all summery outside, and the hottest day of the month on record, the thermostat was set around 80.

CG spent literally 10 to 15 minutes dealing with each customer in front of me, regardless of the simplicity of their request. I can tell he was just trying to do his job, and help people out... but instead of running around the entire U-Hell store doing everything, can't any of that be delegated to the KoQ over there? Apparently not, because all His Highness was able to do was bumble about in the equipment room and emerge a while later to ask a couple dumbassed questions.

During the interminable wait, I scrolled through my Jon Heffron cellphone and a strange number popped up on the caller ID. It was the U-Haul place where I originally reserved my truck - they had called me on Thursday to confirm the reservation, and I didn't pay attention to their phone number at the time. But the confirmation phone number wasn't the same number posted on the outside of the Cold War U-Haul building.
I gave them a buzz, and it turns out that while, yes, these were the guys I had confirmed my reservation with, they weren't the ones who I had made it with. It seems Cold War U-Haul never had the 14' truck and appliance dolly I needed in stock to begin with, and just passed the reservation off to another place without telling me. Naturally, the other place didn't have a 14' truck either... in fact, they hadn't had one for OVER 5 YEARS. They did, however have a truck. It was fucking huge, and $40, but it had wheels and an engine, so I said "OK, where are you located?"
"Oh, we're just off of A-street near McKenna Boulevard."
None of those street names were familiar, especially for giving directions... so I asked him which exit I should take off the Interstate. "Exit 79 is closest, but if you take 77 it's easier to find us."
"Exit 79!?!" I almost yelled, "You're in fricking Commerceville!"
"Well... yeah. Is that a problem?"
"Considering that I'm in Hammistan, yes, I'd say it's pretty big problem. You're 25 miles away from me, guy. I'm not paying $40 for Bigfoot the Monster U-Haul truck, and 79 cents a mile to drive it here and back... not to mention gas. Sorry, guy."

90 minutes later, back at Pollostan U-Hell, I got to the front of the line, and quickly found out that they had no trucks available. The only reason I stayed in line is to see if they had the appliance dolly, I needed... of course they were fresh out. To CG's credit it didn't take more than a minute to deal with me and move on to the next guy... I'm almost shocked he didn't have KoQ rummage around back for an hour "just to make sure."

Anyway, with my immaculate plans all shot to hell, and time fast dwindling, the only thing we could think to do was steal borrow the van from work and doubleteam it with my own to haul as much stuff as we could in the limited amount of time we had left. We got one trip done before Chuckles had to return to work (turns out he was actually supposed to be working, but it was slow enough that he could leave for a couple hours. It's good to be the manager.) and J-Dub had to leave for Tulsa.

Chuckles and Phlegm came over today and we got 95% of it done, but we still need a truck of some sort to get my entertainment center out of there. So tomorrow rather than celebrating Independence Day properly by blowing shit up, I'll be limping into day 9 of my eternal move. Actually, I bought a flagpole mount for the house, so I'll start off by flying Old Glory in front of my home for the first time since I was a kid. That's kinda special all in itself.

----
Previous posts from the De-Luxe apartment in the sky-hi-hi:
Moving is the Suck

Supermodel sandwich can I join your game?

This post is dedicated to those of you who are voraciously following the enrapturing saga of Big Blogger 2. My friends, I have but one question for you: Why haven't you voted yet?

Notice I didn't say "Vote for me, you wallaby-molester!" I'm no attention whore here. If you like the Cheese Sandwich or Sheep on a Unicycle's entries more than mine, then that's cool. Vote for them; they've obviously earned it. If, however, you're just voting for whoever linked you there, then you're doing yourself a disservice by potentially voting out someone whose posts you'd otherwise be enjoying. And also, you suck... but you knew that already.

As with all things Big Blogger, I don't know how (or if) the voting results will actually be implemented. I'm quite certain there's a twist to this somewhere... it just remains for Her Blogness to reveal it to us. Case in point: last year's addition of the Cheese Sandwich & Unicycling Sheep.

At any rate, the map of voters is a nice touch. Who knew Big Blogger was so well-followed in Alaska?

----
Update: Just as I predicted, Big Blogger whips out her twist. Hmmm... that makes it sound all dirty, like she was posing for boobie pictures or something. Because that would never happen.

----
The Rest of The Usual Suspects:
Cazzie!!!
Mark
LanternLight
The Rachy
Hillbilly Mom
TimT
Redneck Diva
Scottage
and the interloper outerloper, Doctor Evil

----
Previous Big Blogger 2 posts:
Theyyyyyyyy're Mediocre!
Infectious Grooves
The Shame of the Monkeybars
Roses Have Thorns: The Kleenex Box Ode
Abe Dawg's Playing Poker
Postcards From the Hedge
Your Friendly Neighborhood Asshole
You can't HANDLE the TRUTH!
Get 'em while they're hot!
Peeping In Windows... Sort Of.
The Attention Span of Modern Thought