Scott's Consumerism Wishlist: Purely to make your lives easier.

In one of my slowest idea-to-action ratios. Three Christmases ago I thought: "My god, wouldn't it be marvelous if I actually told people what I wanted for Christmas, instead of relying on their (often substandard) observational skills?" For example, I had to work for 20 minutes to convince my mom that the lead female villain in Live Free or Die Hard was Asian. So to stem the flow of poor detective work (or at least put a bandage on a bleeding artery), I offer this list of things you can get me this holiday season, ranked by how much you love me.

You Tolerate Me:

• Titanium Spork: because after all, I don't do dishes that often.
• The Annoy-o-tron: if you buy it for me, I promise not to use it on you.
  
• The Subtle (LED, Pocket) Knife: because it's dark in the underworld.
  
• In Case of DARPA Challenge Car Will Be Unmanned: Ha! Take that rapture-er...ians?
• The Doctor's Sonic Screwdriver: "A sonic... screwdriver?" you ask. To which I reply, "What, never had a long night? Never needed to put up a couple of cabinets?"
  

You Like Me:

• Vintage Style Bluetooth Phone Handset: I can't tell you how much I want to walk around in public talking on this thing.
  
• Stealth Switch: You may remember the Stealth Switch from this post. Yeah, well I still want one. And with this, you give the gift of not getting fired for blogging at work.
  
• The only doormat I've ever wanted: And if you get this joke, I'll forgive most other offenses.
  

You Really Like Me:
(too Sally Field?)

• This Watch: To replace one that was similar, that has vanished from the material sphere.
• A helmet cam: Tell me you aren't curious to see what would come of me owning this.
  

You Love Me:

• Dr Who Series 2 and Series 3: As another dashing hero on perpetual vacation, I often like to look in on others. Anyone who buys me this set is officially granted my favor.
  
• Absinthe: Here's the deal. It's legal to have, and legal to buy. But it's illegal to sell it in the US. So, ordering from overseas is fine, but if you bought it at the local Quick-E-Mart they'd be in trouble. I promise to share with anyone who buys it for me. What a nice guy I am!
• This Hard Drive: I'm building a new computer and this is a big part of it. Half a Terabyte on one platter? Insane. And so cheap! Also, if you're an elderly, religious relative and you want to buy this for me: know that you're doing the Lord's work. Because if you got it for me I'd feel weird about filling it with porn. Win/win.
  
• Another of the Same Hard Drive: Come on, I'm so close. With two I'd have a full terabyte. Besides, I'll need a different one to put the porn on.

So there you have it. A holiday gift giving guide for the dashing, geeky, rogue in your life (me). You're welcome. After all, I'm doing this all for you. (And also so I don't end up getting any clothes this year.)

Feel free to mention which things are already bought and to remark on how much you all love me in the comments.

P.S. I'm also quite partial to this tie.

Ok, I've had it.

Excuse the Thanksgiving break following my spat of posting, which itself followed a month of binge drinking. That said, I have a bone to pick. And here it is:

Christians Boycott "The Golden Compass."

Are you people serious? I thought I had fought this ignorance in the form of correcting a chain email at my office about the story, and now I find it on my internet sites. Will this crap never end? So, for the last time, I'm going to explain to you Godless... err Godfull natives why you should sit your indignant asses back down and consider boycotting something more logical. Like that rock 'n roll music, for instance; I heard it makes young people want to fornicate!

Without further insults*...

Point by Point Reasons the Boycott is Ridiculous.

1. Most of you were called to action via an email forward.
   
   
   If I knew you people reacted so strongly to email messages I would have told you about my imprisoned Nigerian uncle. You see, he has great riches, but he needs a small fee to retrieve them. I was told that you are a trustworthy person and you could help. Please just send $5,000 Canadian, and when we get the riches we wil pay U back with many many more monies!!!1!
   

   
   
   He really need s UR help!! Send money orders to: 1600 N. Liberty, Scamston, MO. Bless you, my brother.
   
   
   
2. You can watch The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe and not want to be Catholic.
   
   Watching The Golden Compass won't make you atheist. And if it does, your faith in God didn't mean anything anyway, and that you'll be just as happy as an atheist. Probably even happier since you won't be hemmed in by all those ridiculous "morals" forced upon you.
   
   And if you're worried that it will only tempt you into thinking blasphemous thoughts... well you've probably already damned yourself. You might as well see the season's best fantasy blockbuster. (You might also take up the phrase "well, I'll be damned!")
   
   
   
   Rejected Special Rebranded Edition DVD set.
   
   
   
3. All the best things are banned and boycotted against by these people.
   
   Seriously. Examine their stances on birth control, sex, legalization of pot, and video games. It's getting to the point where their disapproval is the equivalent of a ringing endorsement. I've stopped reading the entertainment pages of my paper. I just get on the internet, find out what the kooks are frothing at the mouth about and have a go at it.
   
   This method works. It's suggested fun new things to me at about 90% effectiveness. That's a better batting average than Amazon and Netflix combined.
   
   
4. Boycotting actually makes people more aware of the movie.
   
   Ok, reversing my tack from the earlier point: let's say you're silly enough to believe this movie will have adverse affects on people, and that it's insulting to the invisible man who lives in the sky. You only provide more incentive for your rebelling children to see the film by demonizing it.
   
   Also, it implies that you're of the school of thought that any dissenting idea should be quashed. This is usually the result of fear that your own ideas about life wouldn't hold up in the presence of others. If this is the case, please GO BACK AND RE-READ POINT 2!
   
   
5. Atheists didn't boycott The Passion of the Christ.
   
   Do unto others as you would have done unto you. Ringing a bell? Somewhere in some book you might have read? What was it... oh yes it was the Bible. Really, look it up. It's in there. Under "D"; for what you should "do".

So that's why you should all just calm down. After all, Atheists can't kill God! We all know that only the Jews can do that! And only at Easter.

Peace to all.

- Scott

P.S. Feel free to email this rebuttal to anyone who sends you those bullshit forwards.

*I'm afraid there was just no way I could keep this promise.

The Spaz and the Spurious

First thing is first: explaining why I can't buy beer anymore.

Driving home from work two Fridays ago I found myself with wide open(ish) roads ahead of me. I had ditched work two hours early and gone to watch a matinée. And I looked this good. Of course I was in a good place.

As it turned out, I was also passing through several places at quite a clip. I didn't care though, I'd been increasing my speed for several months in what I call the "Post-Ticket Cycle of Shame(lessness)." I made great time, but back in town someone was riding my ass. So, I slowed down another 10 miles per hour. In a 35 zone.

"Take that, dick!" I said aloud.

A few moments later said dick flipped on the cherries. It was a cop. And worse, a state cop. And worse, a woman. I find the fem-pigs are always the most angry at you for breaking whatever law you might have ignored. It's like they always followed all the rules in school while watching everyone else having a good time ditching, skipping, or ne'er do welling... and now it's pay back time.

Her attempt at pay back was the following:

Fem-Pig: *waddle waddle waddle* "Sir do you know why I pulled you over?"

Dashing Rogue (me): I thoughtfully pause, then: "Honestly, no."

FP: *exasperated, appalled, abbreviated sigh* "You were driving like a maniac. You passed three cars at once back there!"

Internally I smiled as I remembered doing it and realized why she must have pulled me over, and replied:

DR: "I don't recall doing that anywhere, how fast was I going?"

FP: *extreme embarrassment, and a look of dejection* "I... well, I don't know. I never got close enough to clock you. But I saw you at route 3 and you... blah blah blah"

She said more but I already wasn't listening. She couldn't catch me from Rt. 3 to where I was in Jerseyville?! That's eight miles. I know I was hauling ass, and my car has great ability to ignore curves, but holy shit. I outran a cop for eight miles. I was smiling externally at this point and that's where she got even more flustered.

FP: *sweating and adjusting her considerable girth* "Look, I know you were speeding. I know you were. You passed a car and then a minute later you were a mile and a half ahead of it. That's, you could have killed someone. That's absolutely unacceptable."

Now, there's no way I could have been a mile and a half ahead of a car that was already going 60 miles per hour without using NOS. But her estimate isn't that far off. It was great. She knew I broke the law and she couldn't do anything about it. I felt like I was in the mafia.

DR: *smiling wickedly, with a flourish* "If that's true, I'm sorry. I agree. Completely not acceptable. So what needs to be done, Officer?"

FP: *snippy now, and more flummoxed* "Well I think you know I can't give you a speeding ticket. I didn't clock you speeding. You're getting a following too closely citation. You can pick your license up at the court house in five working days."

And off she went. I still can't buy beer because I look so young, and my license is being held ransom until I pay my debt to society. But I don't need it, I'm still intoxicated by my accomplishment. If I had just taken the turn before town she never would have found me.

But I've learned my lesson: the next time I find myself rocking out as I play leap-frog down 109, make damn sure to keep the radar detector running... and maybe invest in a police scanner.

So, has anyone else got away with something this good during my month off?


P.S. This whole adventure reminds me... ask me about the time I went to jail. That's a post in and of itself.

Patience, Grasshopper(s).

I'm back, collective bitches. Celebrate! I just got back from the longest two weeks of my working life, the culmination of all that work I started in October. I'll explain more, but I'm actually back to my usual, slacker work schedule and actually do need to pretend to work. Often it's just as hard as doing actual work.

...Jesus, I shit you not, as soon as I typed that our manager informed us that a co-worker has had a heart attack and that one of his projects is in my lap now. So that's... just awesome. Fantastic.

In any case, my blog sabbatical worked. I'm refreshed, and I don't want to burn down this elaborate series of tubes called the internet, every time I realize I need to post. I've also got hilarious stories about the following:

• Incompetent Hospital Workers.
  
• Asshole Doctors.
  
• A very flustered State Trooper.
  
• The Detective who is sure I'm lying, but not able to prove it.
  
• Reckless driving.
  
• Made-up words.
  
• Sandwich Cults.
  
• Robots.
  
• Or get your diploma.

There'll be a post when I get home from work tonight. With photos, swearing, and the element that makes all my posts so special: love.

- Scott

Sabbatical.

The best TV comes with the cost of mid-season breaks and an off season. (Reality shows, however, have the ability to churn out shit at the same rate, forever.) The best movies come in three part trilogies. (Actually so do some of the worst...) And the best bloggers have to take a break now and then.

I can't produce any posts until November. I'm allowing a beat for that statement to sink in.

.
.
.
.

Be strong. You'll make it. And when I return, let's just say there'll be a Revolution... Yes... quite a Revolution. OK, enough foreshadowing. In the meantime, and in no particular order, let's look back at the Best of Bufford... the Wonder Blog.

• Offending the System post. Nostalgia for the kind of blatant assholery you can get away with in college, but not the workforce.
  Bonus: a comment from future-girlfriend Meg.
  
  
• Revenge of the Slytherin post. A classic featuring making fun of nerds by dressing nerdier than them.
  Bonus: You need a bonus for that? Read the GD post!
  
  
• Oh, the Hairmanity! post. An explanation of why I only get my hair cut once every three months in the same place.
  Bonus: Tim saying "hey-oh," I think there'll eventually be a drinking game to that extent.
  
  
• Tacky Triad post. My railing against mid-west truckstop couture.
  Bonus: Farmed-out photoshoppery. I outsourced that one to Rob.
  
  
• It's a twista! post. My favorite method of getting out of a lease early.
  Bonus: Lots of photos, including one of my saving an orphan.

Enjoy. I'll see you kids in November.

The Eighth Deadly Sin

Unfortunately, the 8th Deadly Sin has no simple one-word definition. But, in as few words as possible, it could be defined this way: the despising of johnny-come-latelies.

Everybody does it. Did you read that book, or like that TV show, or see the original version of that movie before everybody went ape-shit over it? If the answer is yes, then you know what I'm talking about. If the answer is no, then how does it feel to be a follower? I'm guessing: really desperate.

I'll tell you what it's like: basically you want to shout at the masses, sitting there dumbly blathering to one another about this thing that you liked first. "I liked Andrew Bird two years ago when you were listening to Dave "Gateway Drug to Adult Contemporary" Matthews! Piss off! Go back to your Top 40, assholes!*"

And that brings me to the crux. I saw Andrew Bird this weekend in Champaign and he was amazing. But I was in a bit of a foul mood as a result of waking up at 4:30 AM that morning, and being surrounded by annoying sorority skanks who are here because WPGU played his new, radio-friendly album. Still, if you ever get to see an Andrew Bird concert, do it. The man is a mix of the body type of Jack Skeleton and the insanity and passion of a savant like Willy Wonka. He also plays every instrument on his albums, and writes some of the most beautiful music, overlaid with clever lyrics.

Anyway, my question is this: as much as we want to connect with people, what have you had ruined solely by other people liking it?

- Scott

* You can also read this as "Top 40 Assholes." It's equally valid.

Crush of the Week: Hall of Fame Edition

This week's¹ Crush of the Week: Jenna Fischer.

Why she's earned it: Jenna's has had a bit of a rough year. The first major snafu that happened was, she fell down a marble staircase and broke her back. And let's face it; that sucks. That sucks a lot. Fortunately she didn't lose any, you know, walking ability. But still. She broke her fucking back. She deserves her due props just for looking great despite spinal injury.

The next major shit-storm to hit Port Jenna was that she and her husband separated. And although you might think that would make me happy, it actually doesn't. Because she's a sweet, charming girl and the separation² has to be as painful as breaking her back. If not more so.

Bonus Materials: Jenna is a special kind of girl. She's beautiful in a way that vacillates between "girl-next-door-wholesome-hot" and "holy-shit-does-she-clean-up-well-no-holds-barred-gorgeous." It's hard to switch hit both of those. Meg Ryan has been trying to break into the latter category for years. And the result was In the Cut. Clearly it's a dangerous void to attempt crossing.

But what makes Jenna truly special is her ability to play tongue-in-cheek serious to the limits of the form. The moment I heard her say, dry as a Bounce Sheet, "it's an epidemic," I knew she was Crush of the Week material³.

And so, I deluge you with a shower of Jenna.

First enjoy her photo to the right. Possibly enjoy it for several months, or until I feel like changing it.

Second, give her appearance on Loveline a listen. It makes for a great distraction while you're driving. And even better; it's conclusive proof that she can actually have a conversation. Take that, legion of vapid, boring actresses. Score another for Jenna.

Finally, there is the below. I usually don't go for this kind of video. It's too emotional, too sad, and I generally don't like to focus on the breakup part of a relationship⁴. But she's in it, she's great, and it's grown on me. Just one more example of my seeing what might be dodgy (*ahem* Blades of Glory *ahem*) on the sole basis of her involvement.



So Jenna, I know you've had a rough year. But you know how I feel, and you're the Crush of the Week. Things are looking up.

The ball's in your court now.

- Scott

¹ And who am I kidding, probably this year's Crush of the Week as well, at the rate I remember to update this damn segment.
² I can't fully appreciate the sheer metric-crap-ton of hurt that must bring, but I can tell you that it hurts me to write about it. Literally. I hurt my hand earlier today and hitting CTRL+TAB to see the correct spelling of the word "separation" each time is killing me. I'm self-medicating with beer and Tylenol.
³ Despite not creating the segment for another two years.
⁴ Exception: Brooks & Dunn - Neon Moon. There is no funnier song to belt out when you're pathetically drunk.

Memory Dump

In the style of Creed Bratton, I'm going to post a memory dump of all the things I referenced today, and thought "I should really flesh that out into a blog post." But I'm tired, so you get random Hedburg-esque nuggets of potential post material. Enjoy.

Why is it that women's fashion seems to revolve around taking what old people wore 15 years ago and slutting it up? Cases in point:

big damn sunglasses = old people "over glasses sunglasses"

the "cowl necked top" = "whatever the fuck Rue McClanahan is wearing on the left of this photo"
gauchos = old woman culottes

big assed, gaudy hoop earrings = ...big assed, gaudyhoop earrings (this one is kind of obvious)

Why is it that every time they show a violent video game on the news it's being played at 2 frames per second? If you want to show us what's causing kids to shoot each other, have the decency to play it on a NEW computer. Shell out for something to replace your Amiga. Because it looks like a very dull slideshow on that piece of shit, newsroom PC.

Reader's Digest should come with spray-able samples of air fresheners the way fashion magazines come with perfume... because no one ever reads that rag except on the crapper anyway. Might as well give a nod to your audience: people taking dump."

If I start a band we'll play only ska covers of Mexican folk music. Our name will be El Chupa-SKA-bra.

You used to always see movies where at some point the ultimate evil would show up and manically shout "THE SLEEPER HAS AWAKENED!" Haven't heard this in a long time. Have we all learned our lesson? Time will tell. Also, sleepers will, especially if they wake up.

- Scott

The Triumphant Return

Oh, I've been meaning to mention: Josh R. is back in action.

You should all give the kid a read. His posts have inspired some of my better other-blog-commenting. For instance my explanation of just what exactly it was that Mr. Roboto was being thanked for.

And it comes with the Mis Blogos Favoritos seal of approval... so you know it's good.

Check him out. I command it!

Lazy Terrorists....

Americans are obviously lazy. We've established ourselves as the most lazy nation in the world per capita. If you don't believe me, just go buy a new car-stereo. I promise you it will come with a remote control, because God forbid you do a 1/4th of a sit-up as you reach for the volume.

Don't get me wrong, though. I'm glad we're lazy. In fact, I believe it's our last line of defense against terrorists¹, and possibly our only line. Because how much faith do you have in the fine, young, drop-outs who work for the TSA securing our airports against hair gel, finger nail clippers, and mouthwash. They've started a Goddamn war on hygiene. But I digress...

No, what I put my faith in is the corrupting effect of the American lifestyle to prevent anyone getting up and saying "Hey, let's go frighten the infidels today."

I always hear about alleged terrorist cells in the States, out to do serious harm to our way of life. And presumably to terrorize us. But just what in the hell have they been doing for the last six years? I'll tell you what: eating at McDonald's, shopping at Wal-Mart, and seriously considering whether or not they can afford an H2.

The Shame Campaign: Al Qaeda, Ronald McDonald² is more terrifying than you; just ask a child. (And he likely kills more people.)

It's not that they don't want to hurt us; they do. It's just that it's so hard to find the time, and really, terrorism is such a hassle. Nobody can do the airplane thing again, because now it's passé... and to be fair nobody is really terrorized by it. Personally, in a hijacking situation, I think of myself as not unlike Wesley Snipes in Passenger 57. And that's exactly how I'd act. Because, what the hell, they're going to kill me anyway. I might as well get to live out my action movie fantasy³.

But if there really are terrorists in America, and people tell me that there are, then I think proof positive for my theory is the fact that not one car bomb has gone off in the U.S. since Tim "Honkey Infidel" McVeigh blew his truck up. Hence, there are no American Al Qaeda. Because really... that's the best tool in their arsenal. Look at Israel, do you want to take the bus there? Or go in a parking garage?

Parking garages are already fertile terroristic ground. I mean, combine loud noises with isolation, claustrophobia, and being trapped by foot thick concrete. Toss a few exploding Volkswagens in the mix and suddenly nobody goes to the mall. The economy crumbles (exception: online retail). And the terrorists bring America to its knees.

I'm sure it's been planned before. But they were going to do it on Tuesday and Abdulaziz just refuses to miss American Idol for anything. Then nobody could get their schedule to match up... and to be honest they use that mall as much as the infidels... I mean, it's got a Gap a Suncoast, and Orange Julius...

...and terrorism has been averted.

So score one for America land of the... stuff... or something. Listen, American Idol is coming on, I have to go...

¹ Another example of lazy: we've been saying "terror" attacks ever since about two days after 9/11. Jesus Christ people. It's just -ism. It's really not that much longer, and you sound less like a moron.
² Do a Google Image Search for "McDonalds" that's the sixth result.
³ This is why you see me rehearsing snappy one liners while waiting to board.

Adventures in not Working part 2

Work is a dangerous place. Bosses, coworkers, sharp objects, and unruly customers conspire to steal time away from Digg reading, Wonder Blog posting, and website founding. Sometimes, you need to protect your perimeters. Sometimes you need to protect das fathja-cube. Sometimes you just need artillery superiority to secure your position in the office.

So that's what I created. By purchasing two separate items I created a mad scientist's weapon of mass distraction. The web-cam-missile-turret. With this I can protect my cube from those that would invade it to pilfer my pens, or my make off with my markers, or do something else that alliterates.

Observe:

Before being mounted on top of an 8 foot wall with a full view of the office.


Still in the testing phase, before sighting in the crosshairs... or figuring out how to apply crosshairs. Note the missle control console to the right.


Night-vision and targeting reticle in place, I'm ready to repel any comers.

Now I've been asked why I'm setting this system up when no one is even really messing with me yet. But I have to look at it like this: my cube neighbor Josh is making his move against the desk in picture #2. I've got an aggressive expansionist on my border. I have to approach this like I'm Poland in 1939... but this time I'm prepared (and not a Pole).

I've got about a 20 foot range, and an accurately sighted in scope up to 15. Josh (late 30's Germany to my east) has a small remote controlled helicopter that's going to know what hit it when it takes one of my missiles.

So that's what I've been doing at work.


(Edit: I forgot to mention the best part. I connected my missile-turret to my desktop that I have remote access to. So I can take a sick day, stay home, and from my apartment still shoot at people. Imagine the terror when a seemingly unmanned USB Missile Launcher suddenly comes to life, turns, and fires.)

An open letter to Atlanta, GA

Dear Atlanta,

Hi. How's things?

Listen, I know we're not the best of friends... what with your insistence on calling every type of soda "Coke," and your passion for watching cars turn left for hours on end... not to mention Michael Vick...

My point is, it's not as if I needed more reasons to make fun of the south, but you've gone and decided to ban baggy pants, and the showing of underwear. Sadly including thongs and bras. What the hell are you thinking Atlanta?

Honestly, why can't you be more like Vermont? They just upheld public nudity, the god(s)-given right of everyone born... ever. Why do you think we're born that way?¹ I've my own mis-spent youth of bursting into all female parties and taking my clothes off. Sometimes also naked folk singing. That was good clean fun, and with the exception of a few girls crying (because they had never before realized their own men were so inadequate) everyone enjoyed it.

So how can you get up on your white-sheet-clad-high-horse and ban the kids from showing a little boxer? Is it suddenly illegal to wear a Speedo to go swimming? No? And it should be. But boxers (and bras and thongs) are an important part of our society. I can't count the number of times my mother has shrieked at me for walking around our front lawn in nothing but boxers and a secure sense of manliness. "Don't put our male neighbors to shame; have some modesty!" she complains.

But secretly everyone wants it to happen and you can't ignore it.

I'll conclude my argument with three points, one I think you'll agree with, one you won't understand, and one I think is undeniable.

1.) If you ban sagging pants how will you know which black people you can safely harrass? I mean, some of them can actually afford lawyers.
2.) Without legal baggy pants, low-level superhero Baggin' Saggin' Barry will have to go all Watchmen on your asses.
3.) Baggy pants? What is this 1995?

Just think it over.

- Scott

¹ Oh sure, I bet you'll argue that every once in a while a baby comes out wearing the placenta as a hat... but that's not clothes, Atlanta. And you know it.

Too busy to post, too distracted to work.

Sorry kids, but this was quite a week. I had a server go-live on Tuesday which required I wake up at 3:30 AM and work until about 6:00 PM. It was fun, but it totally f'ed my sleep cycle in the A for the rest of the week. And when my sleep is off how can I post? I reckon I can't.

And unfortunately I don't really have time to post now either, but since I love you all so much I'm making a compromise. I'll post between service calls and remote server software installs, recounting the three work things I laughed at this week. Away we go:

1.) Hour 8 of the Tuesday go-live, a transcriptionist wants to know how to use a very obvious feature of the program (second only to "play audio"). I had been through eight hours of explaining things to people that they should already know. I kind of snapped:

Me: "Step 1. Open eyes. Step 2. Point them at screen."

2.) Internet was flickering on and off to the annoyance of all. It had been down (again) for about 2 minutes when this little exchange took place.

Bryan: "Yea, Al Gore giveth and Al Gore taketh away."
Robyn: "It's back on, but for how long this time?"
Me: "We must make a sacrifice to appease Al Gore. Quickly, someone bring me an SUV! I'll build an altar."

and finally...

3.) Eavesdropping on my boss talking at her desk with a co-worker about dating a stripper.

Beth: "She has four kids? That's a lot of baggage."
Me, mumbling: "Yeah... literally."
Beth: "What?! Did you just say 'literally'?"

Me: "Yeah, if you ever take them anywhere, it's literally a lot of baggage. They all have their day pack, and their suit case, and whatever gaming system they're dragging around, and like one doll and half an old blanket... you're going to have to buy a conversion van. That's what I'm saying. Dating this chick means buying a conversion van. Just go to a dealership right now."

Overheard in New York recogonizes brilliance when it sees it.

Check out the winners of this week's headline contest over at Overhead. Notice anyone handsome? That's right, three weeks into plugging away with potential headlines one finally gets chosen. And it's about the chosen people actually. So that works out.

Unfortunately, it's only a runner-up. But give me another three weeks. I will own that signed book. Oh yes, it will be mine¹. In the mean time I have a good excuse to buy higher-priced liquor.

That's what we call a win-win. And by "we" I mean myself and my friends at the AA meetings.

¹ I might be the first person to quote Wayne's World in the last four to five years. God, what have I done?

It's already paying off.

Remember the time I got ordained?

Well that's the gift that just keeps on giving.

Employee Survey

Here at my work, we have a company wide newsletter. Once a month one special employee is interviewed and the results are published. And it looked like today was my lucky... uh... month. These are the answers exactly as I typed them. Enjoy my lazy excuse to say I posted twice this week. Also if you'd like to hope none of these offend someone who can fire me, you'd be in good company (mine).

1. Chicken: Grilled or Crispy?

This largely depends on how hot it is outside. I usually prefer grilled chicken when I’m hot, crispy when I’m cold.

2. If you could go on a cruise, where would you go?

I’d go to the Virgin Islands again. Also, what’s this “if” I could go on a cruise? Do you know something I don’t?

3. Do you snore?

No. I’ve been told I speak Spanish, curse, and sometimes yell in my sleep, but no one has ever told me I snore.

4. As a kid, were you a LEGO Builder?

I was more of a contractor. They never gave me LEGO employee status, but I was licensed to work with their product.

5. Do you chew on your straws?

Not unless it’s an actual piece of straw from a field, and I’m shirtless and barefoot wearing overalls. Other than that, no.

6. Do you sing in the shower?

Not as much (or as well) as in the car.

7. Have you ever bungee jumped?

Yes.

8. Have you ever eaten sushi?

Also yes.

9. How do you like your eggs?

Cooked by someone else.

10. Crunchy or Creamy Peanut Butter?

This depends on barometric pressure, the phase of the moon, and the stock market. But a good rule of thumb is: Crunchy for PB&J’s, Smooth for all other uses.

11. What is your favorite cartoon character?

Bender, of Futurama fame.

12. What is your *least* favorite color?

Fuchsia. Or possibly taupe. No definitely taupe. Just the sound of the name makes me want to punch somebody.

13. What food could you eat for two weeks straight?

Tuna salad. I don’t have it much, but I always eat it and think: I could probably eat this every day. Then I promptly don’t buy it for another month or so. Vicious cycle.

14. Have you ever licked a 9-volt batery?

Yes, once.

15. How many cars have you owned?

Two. Could we possibly rewrite this question as "how many noobs have you pwned?" Because I'd have funnier answers for that.

16. Are you right-handed or left-handed?

Right handed. Although I bowl left.

17. What country would you most like to visit?

Greece. It has the highest plastic-covered sofa per capita in the world and the most mispronounced ethnic food in the world. (The gyro.)

18. Cheerios or Corn Flakes?

Cheerios. It’s like an English person greeting me every time I take out the box.

19.What is on your PC Wallpaper?

A hi-res image of Earth taken from a satellite.

20. Do you believe in life on other planets?

Of course.

21. Finish this sentence - Isn't it weird that...

…rats are hunted but squirrels get a free ride. Don’t you see?! They’re slowly invading!

22. How many pillows do you sleep with?

Well, that’s very private. But I will say that I’ve been seeing an memory foam pillow lately and so far everything’s going well. We’ve got a date on Friday, actually. Maybe ask me again Monday.

23. Using the first letter of your first name:
- City
- Something you find in the bathroom
- Something you find in the sea

• Seattle
• Shampoo
• Seal Clubbers
  

24. What is your favorite carnival ride?

My favorite ride was always the Rocko Planes. You just don’t see them anymore, so I guess carnies have a better way of turning people upside down to shake out their change. A shame really… it was the only ride where you had a little bit of control.

Movin' up in the world.

I'm a fan of stereotypes. This is not, necessarily, to say that I'm a bad person. I just like to look at the elements that make up a person's life and come to a conclusion about them based solely on that information. This doesn't always appear to be accurate, but it almost always contains a few grains of truth.

For instance, until I was kindly and nicely thrown out of my last job, I was driving this:

Little acknowledged fact: Driving this car automatically signs you up for the AARP newsletter.

Sometimes when I drove this car I even smoked a pipe. And complained about the music the kids listen to. As a result of my car and my habits, I was demographically an old man in all but age and sex appeal. But as I said I got fired, and had a little quarter life crisis. I ditched the firm, wore flip flops and bought a new car (the wisest financial strategy when you have no income.)

Behold: Tom.

That's right. It's a Celica... named Tom. If you still don't get it, mouse-over for a hint.

New car, new license plate (ALT TAB), and a distinct lack of old person-osity. So now I skew young, irresponsible, wildly good looking, and nerdy. I believe that with time, I can live with this.

Another quick one to prove the theory:

My brother used to drive an old Dodge Ram, chew tobacco, and drink keystone. He was, demographically, a rural Midwestern college student. And probably a farmer.

But recently, he's taken out a loan to buy a motorcycle. He smokes menthol cigarettes, and he drinks malt liquor. My brother has become an inner city black man. Q.E.D. The theory works.

Bum Love

Read this story: Homeless Couple Charged With Having Sex On Median During Rush Hour.

Now, is anyone else noticing an upswing in the homeless couple stories? I've read three in the last month. Is there some kind of hoboHarmony.com site out there or something? How are these people hooking up?

In my entire life, I've never seen bums on a date. In fact, I've rarely seen two homeless people in the same place¹. So when it happens... of COURSE they're going to have to just kind of go with it and take their time².

And really, what else are they supposed to do when they go out? 'Za and a movie is probably going to be out of the question, unless Dominoes is throwing something out and there's a drive-in within walking distance.

My point is this: hobos are dating more, and their options are limited. This instance is just another example of the Drifter Dating cliche "Your place or min... oh yeah. So then... screw in the street?"

We're all just going to have to adapt.


¹ Exception: under overpasses/soup kitchens. I go there for the soup, but I stay for the conversation. The bat-shit crazy, disjointed conversation.

² The stigma attached to homeless men getting 'there' too soon is intense. In street culture it is known as the "Bum's Rush" and hobos make fun of each other mercilessly over this.

A Fox News Exclusive

Recently it was discovered that the Fox News website left it's image directory open. I was wandering through, enjoying the blatant and ridiculous rabble-rousing when I came upon the mother-load. I believe they were saving this one sweeps, but I think that it's a story everyone needs to be aware of.



CALL YOUR SENATOR! The liberals must be stopped!

Harry Potter and the Slow News Cycle

Now that the book has been leaked to the internet there have been a number of sites posting spoilers to Harry Potter. I accidentally saw one that didn't ruin anything for me. But it might have. And you all might be spoiled as well. SO to protect my readers here's a long list of fake spoilers that I've created. Hopefully if you actually come across a real spoiler you'll forget it and/or get it confused with one of mine.

1.) Nymphadora Tonks is a man. As a metamorphmagus she can change her form. And if she can change her form HOW DO WE KNOW SHE'S NOT A MAN?! We don't. This is Rowling's bid for a homosexual relationship (between 'her' and Lupin)

2.) Hedwig is a Horcrux. That's right, Harry's bird was a plant from Voldemort. He has long had knowledge of Hagrid's penchant for Snowy Owls, and had his minions place the bird in Diagon Alley every time Hagrid was in the shop. Eventually it was purchased for Harry. It will be one of the most wrenching parts of the book when Ol' Potter has to destroy his beloved pet... and that's what Voldy wanted.

3.) The Sorting Hat is in a sexual relationship with Professor Trelawny. Nobody saw that one coming!

4.) House Elves are actually just wizarding children with Progeria.

5.) Harry becomes an Animagus. He changes quickly, and accidentally, while under extreme stress as he fights Death Eaters. Unfortunately, his form is a dolphin . The Death Eaters summon a tuna trawler and capture him, struggling, in a net.

6.) Snape is neither good or or evil. Just bored. In fact, he doesn't even appear in this volume having taken a position with the Peace Corps in South America to "find himself."

7.) Hermione overdoses on speed which she was taking to keep studying. Later it's revealed that the speed was actually caffeine pills, and her overdose consisted of sloppily singing "I'm so excited." Harry calls a "time out" and we all learn an important lesson about drugs.

8.) Voldemort is a Scientologist. Turns out his "horcruxes" were just body thetans he had to remove from himself to become pure again. He was just realizing the potential of a human mind free from psychology. A rumor in the Daily Prophet said he was a Hare Krishna, but Voldemort set them straight: "Oh sure, sure. Just because I'm bald and I wore an orange robe once that makes me a Hare Krishna. Listen, I wear robes. Sometimes I get tired of black. I know I'm the Dark Lord it's just... you know what, screw this. Avada Kedavra!"

9.) It's all been a dream. The last page is Harry waking up and finding himself 11 years old and living under the stairs at the Dursley's. He promptly hangs himself.

And that's what happens in the last book.

One last time.

The Wonder Blog is not Captain Kirk's personal log, is it? No. Am I the guy from Memento? Another no. Am I even Doogie Houser? A qualified no, since I'm perpetually ahead of expectations and ridiculously good looking, but no. The Wonder Blog is not a journal. Remembering that, I'm going to stop treating it as such and get back to making fun of pop culture.

...but. One last time, because I have 10 minutes to kill.

What I've been doing today:

Seriously, I do this all the time.

What the hell do I do?

Scott Adams recently asked his audience to describe their job in one self-deprecating sentence. Alan "the Great" recently asked me to describe my job in general. In the interest of answering all the idle inquiries of ignominious minds, I shall combine the above into one endeavor and I'll try not to use any semi-colons.

My job:

I install and maintain digital audio and visual recording systems for people that will use them at 1% of their potential, and whose words aren't worth recording in the first place.

I do this for the Courtrooms of Illinois and Missouri. Or at least I did... until today.

Returning from a week-long marathon install, I'm told by my boss that I need to talk with her in the conference room. Alone. In ten minutes. Meeting her in the room she asked how I was doing. Bad sign. Anytime someone wants to know your mental/emotional state before they get down to business it means that they're concerned about your reaction to the coming news.

She proceeded to tell me that they are looking for a replacement for my position.

...because they're promoting me. Because I "...kick far too much ass to continue working in [my] current position." Her words. Really.

The long and the short of it is that I'm now working in a different department within the company (the nice one, actually) as a result of my capacity to absorb large amounts of information quickly. Since I'm now on the medical side instead of legal my new job description (starting Monday) would be as follows.

My job:

I install and maintain business software allowing Luddites and bureaucrats to push more mind-numbing forms across larger distances, more quickly.

To be fair there's also some pretty sweet voice-recognition and OCR software at play. But that was too hard to work into my semi-pithy job description.

So that's what I do... now.

What the hell happened to me?

In short: a new job.

The long version: a shit-ton. I should explain myself. I posted the above and apparently it wasn't enough for the several of you that were on AIM at the time. So I'll elaborate.

A few weeks ago I interviewed at a company called BizNet.¹ My headhunter warned me that they were interested in two other people with 5+ years of experience in the field (as opposed to my relative none). But it went well. I mean, anytime you find yourself in a situation where your responses to interview questions leaves the panel in gales of laughter you have to figure you're coming out a little bit ahead.²

And of course, I got hired. If I sound cocky it's because I'm just so damned qualified. Clearly. That must be the reason. I was in the office my first day, and ever since I've been on the road. I apparently learned all I could in those sparse eight hours before they flung me into the field to live or die by the data pipes. So far I've been mostly living.³

I've come to think of myself as a kind of better looking, less serious James Bond. I get my assignments from an attractive female clerk, take a car from the stable, and head out. I'm not to return until the job is done, or I have died.

Which is a possibility on the next big job, which will be in Alaska. The kicker of which is that, since I'm one of the few non-marrieds (not to mention the FNG) it's perfectly acceptable for me to be Shanghai'd into going there for a few weeks. Should be an interesting gig though, they'll have to fly me into remote locations on sea planes (Bondesque), I'll have to dive on submerged data lines (Bondesque), and I'll have to find ways to entertain myself in places with names like Coldfoot (Fur Trapper-esque).

Clearly I've got a lot on my plate at the moment, but I'm trying to find time to blog. I'm hitting my stride out here, so hopefully I'll just be able to incorporate it into my normal "on the road" routine like JV seems to do.

Anyway, that's what the hell happened to me. Any questions?

¹ Not its real name. But a rough approximation of meaning and cadence.
² Provided you meant to make them laugh.
³ In fact, I'm writing this from an reasonably decent hotel with an unreasonably huge bed for me to sleep on. I've got three beers, cable, and the internet. Live it up.

Bringing balance to the Force world

I'm nothing if not a crusader against social injustices. Ask my friends. Every last one of them will tell you how I toil away every spare minute looking out for the less fortunate. Most of these things I've done subconsciously. So subconsciously in fact, that upon reflection I realize that if you asked those friends again they'd probably have no examples to give you. So in the interest of helping out a decent man (me) I'll give a few examples of the small ways I bring balance to the universe.

1. Ogling modestly dressed women. This includes Mennonites. I stare at every inch of hair escaping their bonnets, just so they know that it's working overall. I mean, 90% of their hair is still hidden, and therefore not lusted after.
   
   Ask yourself, if I didn't slow my car down as I pass them, obviously leering at every curve those potato sack dresses betray... how would they know they need to go out of their way to avoid inciting lustful thoughts? Really I'm doing them a favor.
   
   
2. Tipping the homely waitress better than average. This is a result of fighting my instinct to tip the pretty girl better. But why? It's not like she's going to have any more sex with me as a result. (Usually we've already hit our limit.)
   
   I have to speculate that the cumulative effect of this works out in favor of the pretty girl, so still I press on. As a side benefit, when you do tip a homely waitress better, you're more likely to get special attention next time.
   
   
3. Crossing the street to avoid well dressed, white businessmen. Anyone can feel leery of a dirty, panhandling bum as they pass him on an empty street at night. But it takes real Social Robin Hooding to religiously avoid the relatively clean, aloof banker. Deal with that, Person Not Asking Me for a Handout!
   
   Sadly, his method is ineffective against Jehovah's Witnesses on college campuses. You can cross the street away from them, but they've set up a staggered net pattern. And you are going to have a little green bible whether you want one or not.

I'm sure I'm not alone. I may be the Mother Teresa of the movement, but I'm sure there's a few priests in the closet out there. What I mean is...

Let's hear your examples.

I have a dream!

I have a dream, my brothers and sisters. In fact, I have a few per night*.

Recently I had a dream that I could fly. I also had a dream that I could use chopsticks. And let me tell you, that one was way more satisfying. It was also way more depressing to wake up from.

I can accept not being able to fly, but suddenly not being able to do something mundane like chopstikery... unacceptable.

What I'm saying is that there's a reason for the saying "if you're going to dream, dream big." Heed my warning.

- Scott

*Take that Junior.

The Emperor's New Pepper

I had gone to Macaroni Grill. That was probably my first mistake. It was my last day at my old job, and my parents wanted to take me out to eat. Unfortunately I forgot that this was the plan and had earlier eaten a huge burger and a drank few equally huge beers. I was drunk. And I was going to dinner twice.

The fact that I could only imagine being able to choke down a salad (at best) meant that my ordering was simple. I would have a salad. And on this salad I would have ground pepper. Or so I thought.

The quasi-goth, semi-chubby, faux-waitress arrived and took our order. Experiencing buzzed subjective time it seemed like she immediately returned with my salad. Thats where things took a turn for the argumentative. This half-measure of a woman pretended to grind pepper onto my salad. I courteously explained that I believed her mill was empty, but she countered that the pepper was very fine. I leaned close to my salad and commended her on her ability to dissolve pepper into subatomic particles.

I was ignored because I was drunk, but the charade was too much for me. Even now! My parents sat there and pretended that she ground out pepper for them. In their defense, my dad did condescendingly comment on just how fine it was. So it's not like they bought it (or Dad didn't). But we sat our asses in those seats and ate like Peter Pan; imagining we were consuming hallucinatory spices.

It's the night that's been replaying itself over and over, projecting its madness on the very bone and tissue of my head.

Has this ever happened to any of you?

A related rant.

I have a question for all of you. Especially women. Answer this simple question.

Why is this a "Guy Fridge"?

You'll notice that there's not even that much alcohol in it. I was proud that I could see the bottom without moving even one six pack, or fifth of liquor of any sort. And it even had the potential for a few meals in there (sammich' fixin's in the drawer are hard to see, but present.) And yet, all I hear is "oh, that's such a guy's refrigerator."

What the hell do you have to put in there to make it not a guy's fridge? Tampons? Help me out here.

Walking the Earth.

Him: So if you're quitting the life, what'll you do?

Me: That's what I've been sitting here contemplating. First, I'm gonna finish this post. Then, basically, I'm gonna walk the earth.

Alas, no more waking hours consisting of 2 P.M. to 5:30 A.M., I've quit the life. I'll say no more now, since I'm on the verge of passing out from lack of sleep. I just wanted to tell you that I'm alive. And I've got a shit-ton of good news to lovingly dump on your unsuspecting bodies.

But for now, I have to pack; tomorrow I begin my long journey.

- Cryptic, but optimistic, Scott

Will play WoW for salary

Picture that on a cardboard sign resting dashingly across chiseled pectoral muscles. You'd have some idea of my predicament. That's right Wonder Readers, I've been shitcanned. Gone are the halcyon days of playing World of Warcraft, hiding under floor tiles to scare co-workers, and blogging from work. Also, gone is the working. That too.

I'll not bore you with every detail (and I don't have any desire to offend former employers who might read this), but the short version of the story is that I was hired at the same time as another employee but started a few days later. This established seniority in his favor, and when it came down from the boss's boss's boss that the Operations department would have five instead of six... well, guess who was Number Six*? Me baby, me.

In the intervening time I've spent a weekend with a girl in another city, drank several varieties of beer, almost bought a car, drank some gin, cleaned up my apartment, and had a few drinks. I also watched 12 movies**.

Currently I'm drawing unemployment and plotting my next move. I like the first part better. You don't have a job? Oh, well here's money then. Excuse my prior anti-government rants, because this part clearly works.

So, good readers. I have no idea what I want to do. I could travel, move to another city, get another job, become a grifter, or get my (sham) Doctorate. Really my possibilities are wide open at this point.

What would you like to see me do?



Asides:
* To be fair, so are Tricia Helfer and Patrick McGoohan
** And if you're curious, here's the list:

1. Before Sunset
2. Wet Hot American Summer
3. Pirates of the Caribbean (1)
   
4. Pirates of the Caribbean (3)
5. Waking Life
6. Les Yeux sans visage
7. Tombstone
8. Office Space
9. Super Troopers
10. Accepted
    
11. American Beauty
12. Hackers
    

The Power of Blog Compels you!

Gresham's Hundreds: The First Frivolities

I started Gresham's Hundreds as a direct result of the post where I said I had everything I wanted already. This bothered me. It made me ask myself, 'So what the bloody hell am I working for then?' Instead of quitting the workforce proper and becoming a grifter (which I am by no means ruling out) I decided that I would take on projects, frivolities, and bizarre purchases to fuel my languid sense of consumerism.

I wondered... what could I buy that would make me a better person. A more rounded person. A holier person. It so happened that, unbidden, the Reverend Al Sharpton jumped into my thoughts. In fact, I'm sure that's the only way he ever jumps into anyone's thoughts. I decided that I had to cast the beast out, but then I realized... he's a reverend. How do I contend with that?

By becoming ordained myself! A quick search around the interwebs turned up several such sites. A slightly longer comparison of the legality of various methods of being ordained followed, and finally a deliciously long rant about why I wanted (and felt I deserved) to be ordained along with some cash to grease the wheels, and two weeks later I receive the following in the mail:

I'm ordained as hell!

So from now on, you can refer to me as the Reverend H. Scott Gresham. On the left I have the founding documents of my church. As it turns out, I get to pick the name. I'm still taking suggestions, but I'm leaning toward The Scott Gresham Hallelujah House of Pancakes (and Salvation). On the right is the document from Rose Ministries confirming me as a member in good standing of their order, and legally ordaining me to perform marriages, funerals, and last rites.

Oh, and in the middle is my clergy credentials card, which I intend to use to visit friends in the hospital when they're only letting in family. You can always play the clergy card I've found. So it gets me a little more access. It's also a fun thing to pull out as an explanation for why you're someplace you shouldn't be. Nobody questions a Reverend. It's like a never ending roll of Mentos.

Other advantages of being ordained include:

• Telling people the end is near, but also offering an inexpensive sure-fire-salvation package.
  
• Blessing water to make it holy, useful for fighting Zombies, Vampires, Werewolves, and most other kinds of undead. (Ask me about my Holy Water creation service; just $5 bucks per gallon! Unleash a Super Soaker filled with the power of God on those pesky evil creatures of the night.)
  
• Frequently forgiving myself.
  
• Asking Jesus, as a personal favor, to spare a few kittens for me.
  
• Being able to marry and bury people (not always mutually exclusive).
  

If you'd like a closer look at my (suitable for framing!) Certificate of Ordination, here it is.

I'm working on the doctorate for a future GH, but most of those come from Qatar or the United Arab Emirates. I'd prefer to stay off the no-fly lists, for now anyway. Still, I promise that eventually you'll be able to call me "Reverend Dr. H. Scott Gresham, Esquire." And not only will you be able to; I'll make you.

Go in peace my children.

So say we all.

P.S. (I got bored later, and since it was so easy... here's this: the sign for my church.)

New Wonder Blog Segment

I'm ducked low at my desk typing furiously; attempting to finish before anyone notices I'm not working. The "Scranton" branch of my company (where I first worked) is closing tomorrow, and no one seemed to realize it until today so there's a week's worth of shit to get done in about 36 hours. This has been keeping me busy all week, hence my lack of updates. However I managed to complete a promotional shot for the new segment: Gresham's Hundreds.

Like Brewster's Millions... only poorer.

So look forward to that over the weekend. I'll explain more later, but someone's headed this way. Back to the Data Mines.

- Scott

When your Patron Saint is Jim Halpert...

If I could be thought of as the equivalent of my office's Jim Halpert, then another employee who we'll call "Jeff" because it's his name, would certainly be Dwight Schrute. I've played a few practical jokes on him. Once I hid under the raised floor for 15 minutes, patiently waiting for a text message from Jimmy that would give me the heads up to... well pop my head up. Another time I called the "bat phone" (which was presumed to be disconnected) and as a fictitious VP, frantically described a smoke alarm I was seeing.

But what I think makes for the best pranks, are those you don't have to be present for. Without further ado, today's chicanery:



My phone ran out of memory, so here's a better look at what Jeff will see at 2 AM when he tries to open that (essential) program. Oh, and I turned the speakers up to full volume.

I love the corporate world.

Spider-man, Spider-man, does whatever the Emos can.

I saw Spider-Man 3 this weekend with my good friend, and first Thane of Candyland, Jake. I could review it, but you'll see it anyway. Instead I'll make fun of the movie point by ridiculous point, using that tried and true blogging standard: unordered lists.

Without further skippable text all the things Spider-Man 3 loses points for.

• Hot, female, well groomed scientists. As someone with a background in the sciences, I can tell you that these do not exist. Most of the women (especially in computer science) could pass for truckers, not models. So stop it with that crap.
  
• Snaggletooth'd Mary Jane Watson. Kirsten Dunst. Enough said.
  
• The "I have amnesia" plotline. Seriously. If one more asshole writer uses convenient memory loss as a way to advance the story, I'm going to rampage through Hollywood shooting at these people with bullets fashioned crudely from their scripts. It may not kill, but it will certainly maim.
  
• The Mask-style dance scene in the Jazz club with Gwen Stacey filling in for Cameron Diaz. What, were we feeling nostalgic for 1994? And if Spidey's with MJ, shouldn't that mean that Gwen is dead?
  
• The asymmetrical-haired-eyeliner-wearing-emo-kid "Dark Peter Parker." Why, God why was I forced to watch this?
• That dance scene again. Jesus, he played jazz piano and said "this one's for you" in a faux-breathy jazz voice. I'm squirming in discomfort as I relive it.
  
• Harry Osbourne as the new Green Goblin. He's not so much the new Green Goblin as the new Marty McFly on a brand new Mattel Hoverboard. I would go so far as to call him, not the Silver Surver, as the Black-clad Snowboarder.
• And finally: everything the Sandman does. Especially that corny as Hee-Haw scene where he explains that "he didn't mean no harm" by all the stealing and the killing. He has a sick daughter after all, this was his only route.
  

But it's not all bad, I have to admit. Things that save the movie:

• Bruce Campbell as the maître d'.
  

Go see it, if only for that.

In other news: I've been thinking a lot and I've come up with a new segment for the Wonder Blog that I think you'll all find quite hilarious. The two people I've described it to laughed aloud with mirth and merriment, just hearing the outline of the idea. So, I think it's a keeper. I'm working on it now, and hope to have something to show for it by the end of the week.

in the dark where do shadows go?

Hats off to you, Mr. Durden

Apparently I'm a much more pure person than I give myself credit for. Perhaps even a super-being of some sort (I've certainly got my share of minor-superpowers, but that's stored away for a series of posts and a spin-off novel). I run into this quite a bit, and while at first I thought it was just the odd motivations of a few people I knew, I'm starting to think that I might be in the minority here.

I'll make the statement that seems to bother people, then go from there: I have everything I want.

Or, more accurately, there's nothing that I really want enough to pursue. This was something I had to explain to my parents (when they wanted me to get a job), my relatives (when they want to buy me things), and most recently my co-workers* (when they can't believe I don't want overtime).

I've looked into this deeply over the course of several seconds, and realized that most of the things I want can't be bought outright. So, rather than ponder at why the people in my immediate vicinity have such strange values, from now on I've decided to accept that I am simply a more evolved creature, completely above materialism at least where it involves extra effort on my part.

Tyler would be proud.

* they also stared me with incredulity when I would forget to pick up my check at Best Buy for two weeks in a row. What? I can't be expected to bother with these things.

I want some damn credit.

I was just reading Tim's blog today, specifically this post when I came upon the following passage.

I was really honored to be chosed to play in the CIF show with MadTV's Frank Caeti*...

[other crap omitted]

*Super nice guy.

I've already expounded on the hilarious results of Tim's education at the hands of the public school system in the comments of his post. So if you'd like to make fun of his Jed Clamp-onics, that's the place to do it.

But what really struck me was the "super nice guy" portion. Let me tell you, I'm sick and tired of every time somebody meets some damned celebrity (even minor celebrity) they go on and on about what a "nice guy" they are. Well of course they're nice guys. You're lavishing them with attention, deference, and respect. Treat any asshole on the street like that, and suddenly, OH MY GOD! he'll seem like a really nice guy too.

I'll give you that without a certain amount of decency, they wouldn't have gotten as far as they did (we're back to talking about celebrities here). So naturally, they know how to shake a few hands and squeeze a few asses on the down-low, but this does not account for the lavish praise people heap upon them. All these sons of bitches have to do to get the "nice guy" status is not punch you in the face and break your camera.

I make a point of taking pictures of myself with your camera, often even without your asking me to, and I've never punched (most of) you in the face.

All I'm saying is that all you assholes should make a point of what a nice guy I am. Preferably in writing.

That is all.

Editors note: I later realized I didn't make it clear that I wasn't really talking about Tim in this post, but the experience of meeting celebrities in general. Usually by people more interested in the idea of their fame than the talents (if any) that brought them there. Except the part about "chosed" that was about him.

...NEXT!

To be fair, they practically named the movie Don't Waste Your Time, but regardless I went and saw Next with Jakey today. I was braver than I was wise. From the trailer* I knew a number of things.

1. Nicolas Cage is in a position to wipe out the horror that was Ghost Rider by creating something even worse, effectively eclipsing his last catastrophe.
   
2. Julianne Moore is hard-up for cash and it pisses her off. This comes through in her performance.
   
3. There is a stylist in Hollywood propagating the Tom Hanks "DaVinci Code" hairstyle. This person is probably the anti-Christ.
   

The movie, if it deserves the title, starts with Nicolas Cage working as a magician. Why in God's name a guy trying to lay low would seek a job as public as a magician is a question for another blog post. He gets on stage and begins his act, as stilted and wooden as a poorly programmed robot making an awkward stab at humanity. Basically, he plays Nicolas Cage.

This lasts all of five minutes until (inexplicably) the FBI tries to grab him to fight French terrorists who (inexplicably) want to detonate a nuclear bomb**. He chooses to run, but before he can manage it he has to meet and woo Jessica Biel who (inexplicably) changes her footwear three times for the same outfit over a course of four hours.

Next was passably decent (in a National Treasure make-fun-of-every-scene kind of way) until the ending, which I shall now ruin for you. As it turns out at the end when he fails to prevent the nuclear bomb from detonating, it's all been an elaborate vision of what may happen.

This is bullshit. I'd rather a movie do something interesting (like blow up eight million people because our hero chose to save the girl) than pull a Dallas. The only saving grace of the movie was that it was a movie in which Jessica Biel was not only terrible, but actually flaunted her crippling lack of acting ability. I figure one more of these, she's got to do nudity just to stay in the game.

Here's hoping.

* If you watched the trailer, and didn't laugh when Jessica needlessly said "You can see things before they happen" you are no longer my friend.
** Seriously, they never explain why they want to blow this bomb. Not even a little exposition. Not even a simple "finally the American Pig-Dogs will pay for calling them 'freedom fries'" line.

Oh, about that.

I realized that I, quite rudely, mentioned a blog that I write for without linking to it below. And upon further reflection, realized that I hadn't mentioned it on this blog at all. It's a joint blog between Myself, Nessa, Tim, Rob, and Jake. Originally I was keeping it a secret and waiting until it found it's "voice" or perhaps until we had a backlog of decent content. So... look for that sometime in the next few months.

In the meantime I have a post up that is both hilarious and informative. You'd do well to check it out.

Really Cool People... us.

Even the URL is cool and exclusionary. How can anyone resist?

- Scott

Slaughterhouse top Five bottom Five

That's probably what Vonnegut was referring to in his title. I mean, you could ask him, but you'd have to be unstuck in time. And that's probably worse than taking me at my word (depending on whom you ask).

Anyway I had a real post for The Wonder Blog, but I then promised a fellow guild member that I would post on my other blog today. So instead, I'll take care of this little bit of housekeeping.

Top Five of the Week:

1.) Sixty things worth shortening you life for. Because I have an unhealthy love for unhealthy loves.

2.) An accurate recording of how I play video games. It's funny because it's painfully, painfully true. (Question: just what the hell kind of accent is that?)

3.) Good news! The devil made the VT shootings happen. Now we can all relax and stop all that worrying thinking that accompanies tragedies. Note: on the top five only because it made me laugh so hard.

4.) Oklahoma declares watermelon state vegetable. To-may-to/re-tard-o.

5.) Oh no! Somebody set us up the bomb! And the shame here is that the network still exists.

Bottom Five:

1.) This copying asshole. Didn't I do this weeks ago? Then, just afterwards, a Boing-Boing mention and a Digg article? What did the internet just find out because I mentioned it? The StealthSwitch has existed for at least two years. What the hell internet?

2.) New Electronic Talking Battleship Big Brother. Now with riboflavin!

3.) The collected works of the VT Shooter. I in no way make light of the act itself. It was a terrible, vile thing to do and my condolences go out to all those affected. But I think we all need to look at the silver lining here; he can't write any more of these horribly bad one act plays. Seriously.

4.) Remember Galactus? The giant planet eating alien from Fantastic Four comics? Yeah, now he's a cloud. Lame.

5.) Hot Fuzz getting screwed out of theaters. Damn it, a good movie only gets seen on DVD but shit like Are We Done Yet? gets 300,000 screens?

Crush of the... Past?

Since entering corporate America, I've had little time to do the things I enjoy. Including developing new and intriguing crushes of the week. Fortunately I have what some would call a vault, and what the less couth might refer to as a "spank bank," of old crushes. But just because they're old, don't think they've gone bad. Most of these are still girls I still harbor crush-esque feeling towards, and one of these is the subject of today's post.

*doodley-do underwater music and a gradual fade to the wavy lines*

Crush of the Past:

The year was 2001. Disappointingly no Space Odyssey occurred, but I was a sophomore in high school and I had other things on my mind. Things like women. Frustratingly, the women on my mind were either fictitious (damn you, Rory Gilmore), married (damn you, Senora Wood*), or simply unattainable (damn you, my then-developing irresistible charm). Some have argued that all of these women were unattainable. These people are jealous of my now-fully-operational irresistible charm**.

But the girl in question fell in to the last category. Her name was... wait, I'm breaking with tradition. Might as well do this properly.

Her name: Laurel Shaffer.

Why she is (or was) crush worthy: A band called The Hippos once sang "Something in the way she never looks my way / I'm in love, I'm in lo-oh-ove." This was pretty much the case. As you might have noticed, I tend to attract a lot of attention. And not only for being so good looking. I'm also frequently at the center of lots of people laughing. With me or at me, either way they're entertained. She was never one of these people. And that intrigued me. She was aloof to the point of ignoring me, but it never came off snotty; it only made me try harder***. I think that was the quality I liked best.

Oh, she was also pretty hot. That factored in as well.

Bonus Material?: I often embed some YouTube link of the crush doing something adorable. There is no such material to offer in this case. She's currently working as an actress, she was even in a Clearasil ad that I'm sure you've seen, but there's not jack-all-squat out there for me to post. Hence, I'm forced to construct her visage by collaging. Here goes:

After several hours of fierce Photoshopping, this is the final product.

Basically I discovered an equation for Laurel rather than being able to accurately reproduce her. The hair, eyes, and head shape of Fiona Apple + the soft expression of Amanda Seyfried - any implication of ridiculously full lips = A rough approximation of this week's Crush o' the Past.

If anyone has a better effort, he is welcome to submit it.

* Senora, if you still read my blog, I'm mostly joking. Though a guy could do much worse.
** It became much easier once I found that watch with +8 Charisma.
*** I did finally get her to laugh when I was auditioning for improv teams. At which point I could have died happily.

Spaced Out.

I don't know about you, but I've never felt more stoned than after a haircut. This isn't really saying anything because it's more or less been clinically proven that I can't get stoned. But I can imagine what it would be like and the afterglow of a haircut fits all the criteria.

• Lack of focus (started this post at 3:30... the next bullet was completed at 5:14).
  
• Content, sleepy feeling.
  
• Half-open eyes.
  
• Disjointed sense of time.
  
• Hungry (munchies).
  

It's great. The process starts sometime about 3-5 minutes into the haircut (around the shampooing). I think this is why every person who has ever cut my hair is placeable on a range from somewhat stupid to makes-rabid-Larry-the-Cable-Guy-fans-seem-intellectual; they talk to stoned people all day. They've got to be getting dumber if only by osmosis.

Now I'll grant you that I go to a lady. I say I go to "a lady" because I'm very manly and it's just not appropriate to say I go to a "hairdresser," or even a "stylist." Bullshit. I go to a lady. And because of this I can't be sure that at a barbershop the entire experience isn't much more straightforward. But at His Excellency* I'm surrounded with beauty school graduates that have very strong opinions on everything... everything readily graspable by the core audience of the FOX network.

But like... dude... where was I going?

Oh yeah. I had questions. Are all hair ladies this way, or just the ones I've ran into? Furthermore, is there a manlier solution to having such glorious hairstyles? Finally, how is it that I'm above the influence against my will?

* This post brought to you by His Exellency: Where the Customer is King!**
** This slogan made up by Scott: which did not amuse the employee's thereof.

Grindhouse Review or A Tale of Two Shitties

It was the best of films, it was the worst of films, it was a movie of action, it was an artless bore...

This weekend (on Easter day actually) I went to see the combined works of Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez. The double feature, collectively dubbed Grindhouse, was supposed to showcase two shortish films (Planet Terror and Death Proof) from two of my favorite directors interspersed with fake trailers. As far as that goes, it succeeded.

But in more practical terms it gave us two examples of shitty, B-movies that should have both been immaculately good, fastidiously planned, A-list versions of B-movies. They should play up all the things we love about seeing a so-bad-it's-good movie in a crappy theater, and none of the things that we endure grudgingly. Unfortunately only Planet Terror manages to use missing reels, scratched film, and overexposed negatives to their fullest potential. And Death Proof... well... let's save that for later.

Planet Terror was certainly worth the price of my admission. It was probably even worth the 14 bucks I spent on popcorn and orange soda. And it may have been worth the 15 year old gang-bangers wandering in around halfway through, sitting down, talking loudly, then deciding to go try to score some weed and leaving. Rodriguez packed more action movie one-liners into the script than I would have expected it could handle, but it always works, and it's always funny. There's just something ridiculously satisfying about plot twists involving the hero being forced to escape zombies on a pocket bike. Not to mention the fact that those selfsame zombies tear Fergie apart in her first five minutes of screen time. Turns out, she really wasn't really as Fergilicious as adverstised.

Wonder Blog rating for Planet Terror: 9.4/10

Then come the second trailers between showings, all of which were better than Death Proof.

Wonder Blog rating for The Trailers (which deserve their own post... damn they were brilliant): 10/10

And then... slowly, came Death Proof. After roughly an hour and a half of zombies, explosions, and chicks with prosthetic legs made out of (working) machine guns we're treated to this stinky cinematic suppository. It starts out somewhat promising, with a replacement title screen for the (obviously) lost real one. But then we're subject to the most boring, painful, meaningless chick flick girl-talk for what felt like longer than the first movie.

And the fetishism! My god! After the fifth or sixth long, lingering shot of some girl's feet I turned to my cohorts and asked 'I forgot, did Tarantino direct this one?' I mean, I fully support his doing whatever turns him on, but let's move along with the movie, alright?

A few spoilers follow from this point so just skip to the ranking if you'd like to avoid them. But the girls we meet at the start of the movie are so painful to watch that I literally applauded their deaths. I could not have been happier when Kurt Russel drove his car over the face of one of the most annoying of their number. After he dispatches the first long winded, annoying car-load of women, he manages to find a second. These girls are perhaps even more annoying and I was greatly looking forward to their deaths. Unfortunately that's not how the movie went. I won't ruin the ending, but I will say it was weak, and that I'd really liked for them all to have died painfully, if for no other reason than that it's not really suspense if nothing bad actually happens.

Wonder Blog rating: 4.5/10

Overall I'd recommend seeing it. But if you have to duck out early, don't feel too bad about missing Death Proof. I'm seeing Grindhouse again this weekend and I doubt I'll stay for it. (Though Rosario Dawson looked lovely in it. So did Mary Elizabeth Winstead for that matter *rwrr*.)

Of course, you're welcome to agree with me. Feel free to do so below.

- Scott