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I just found another MSN search that led to these pages, my favorite one yet:
people that poop there pants and tell about it
That’s just so unspeakably sad on so many levels that it’s hilarious. You MSNers are some weird, twisted, spelling-challenged motherfuckers.
The best part is that I come up #8 on the results for that little gem. Made me poop my pants.
Karl Elvis and Ray turned me on to the Gematriculator, that site I goofed on yesterday that tells you how evil your site is. You plug in your url and it analyzes the words on the page and applies some arcane algorithm and then it tells you how evil your page is. (I’m actually only 34% evil.) Good clean fun, yes?
Well, I was just poking around over there and found that in addition to having a website’s good/evil analyzed, you can also have it do a block of text. A name, for example.
Well.
I analyzed myself, of course, and was disappointed. I try to be all bad-ass but apparently I’m only 1% evil. I guess my halo just won’t tarnish, no matter how hard I try. Then I did Beth. And that’s when I learned things.
Using her married name (which she’s only just started using at work after nine years of marriage — and that’s an entry for another day), Beth too is only 1% evil/99% good. She’s an angel, just like me. But when I used her maiden name…
Oh. My. God. She was 99% evil! Only 1% good!
Things made so much more sense when I learned that. My wife has partied with David Lee Roth, sat on Jim Morrison’s lap, dated a Pretender. She used to go through men like I used to go through vodka. She used to be a bad girl. Now she quilts, she gardens, she drives a Volvo. Now she’s a good girl. What happened?
I happened. I changed her, saved her from a life of evil, turned her toward The Light. Beth was on the road to ruin until I met her and took her under my tutelage. I married her, and in doing so saved her. I redeemed her.
Now I know what it is that I’ve always felt was missing between us: her gratitude. More than that, her worship. I’ve always felt like I deserved more wifely deference and respect around here and now I have the scientific evidence to back it up. I can’t wait to tell her.
And I hope me being Good also means I’m under the good Lord’s protection. I might need it.
Before you actually read this entry, I should warn you that you might not want to. What I have to say might ruin TV and movies for you, it might even ruin casual conversation. Just as all you see on the road is blue cars after you buy a blue car, you will notice what I’m talking about when you watch TV or movies every single day. And you’ll probably think of me when it happens.
Still want to read? Okay, I warned you. Let’s go.
I have a screenwriting pet peeve. It’s a phrase that appears in every single sitcom, every 1-hour drama, every movie, every virtually anything that is scripted. It’s a phrase that is so ubiquitous that hearing it snaps me right out of whatever I’m watching. It’s everywhere.
What is it? “I can’t believe.”
I can’t believe you said that.
I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.
I can’t believe my eyes.
I can’t believe this is happening.
I can’t believe you’re leaving me.
I can’t believe blah blah blah.
It’s in everything and it annoys the piss out of me. It’s lazy writing, it’s passive, and it doesn’t make any sense. You can’t believe it? Really? You aren’t able to accept the reality of what is actually happening to you at this very moment? You think you’re hallucinating, maybe? Would you like me to call a doctor for you? I recommend a psychiatrist since you’re having trouble orienting yourself.
It’s even wormed its way into casual conversation. Think about it, how many people said they couldn’t believe it to you today? How many times couldn’t you believe it yourself? It’s a pox on the tongue of conversation.
But TV and movies is where I really have a beef with it. It really is in everything, and I do mean everything. Every single sitcom — and I mean every episode of every sitcom. Friends, for example: ten years of someone not believing something every single week. It’s in every drama. Every soap opera. Every movie, both theater and TV. It’s everywhere. Watch for it, you’ll see I’m right. I pointed this out to Beth and now every night when we’re watching TV we point at each other and intone “can’t believe” when someone says it. And someone always does.
Well, I’ve taken a stand against it. That phrase does not appear in a single one of my scripts. I’m doing my part to improve the TV and movie-going experience, even if none of the producers out there know about it yet.
And you… Well, you’re infected with the noticing of it now, too. From now on, every time you hear it you’re going to flash back on this entry and think of me and nod to yourself and think that, yes, Chuck was right.
Believe it.
My former co-worker Kevin won my movie quote contest the other day, winning him a guest entry spot here at the Lunchroom. I’m proud as hell to be his first. Here’s what Special K had to say:
After living most of my online life on the outside of the blog world looking in, I find myself with the somewhat difficult task of becoming that which I have only observed.
So the question I ask myself is what do I say in my first tender moments as I give up my online journal virginity?
Do I reveal deeply personal secrets? (I can’t name more than 2 Supreme Court justices… but I do know the names of the remaining Bachelorettes on “The Bachelorâ€)
Do I reveal something about my home life (I recently found myself sticking my nose full in my 6 month old’s diaper just to see if it really needed changing.)
Do I tell of my secret loves? (I have a man-crush on Phil Keoghan of the Amazing Race. I don’t want to make out with him or anything…but a nice long hug would not be unwelcome.)
Do I tell of my political views? (While I am an admitted Bill Clinton fan, the thought of his face on a coin that could potentially be in the front pocket of my pants makes me a little uncomfortable.)
So in the end, I decided that the only real and honest thing I could do was to tell something about myself…reveal a little bit of my soul.
I must have eaten something funny.
My farts smell like broccoli.
I’m doing it again. Procrastinating. But I suppose technically I’m not really procrastinating, I’m reaping the fruits of doing so earlier today. It’s 12:44 a.m. and I’m prepping for a class that starts in 7 hours and 16 minutes, when earlier today I was lounging around and doing a whole lot of nothing instead of prepping so I could be sleeping at 12:44 a.m. Procrastinating. Again.
It’s okay, I perform well under pressure. At least that’s what I told myself during Finals back in my 2.5 GPA days. Ha.
Anyway, I’m finally getting around to prepping — or am I? Because you’re reading this, which means I was typing it, which means either I’m one King Hell of a multi-tasker or I’m screwing around instead of working. The smart money is on option B.
I find that what I’m really doing is prepping for awhile, then farting around online for awhile, then getting back to prepping. Not very efficient, but at least I’m making progress. So I guess I’ll try to be doubly productive: I’ll prep for a bit, then I’ll work on an entry to screw around a bit. Multi-tasking! Woo. Since I’ll probably end up writing about what I’m listening to on iTunes Party Shuffle while I’m working, I guess I’ll just start out that way rather than ultimately giving up and drifting into it.
Kid Rock – Cocky – Damn, but I like this song. They say I’m cocky and I say what / it ain’t bragging motherfucker if you back it up. I like Kid Rock a lot. I dismissed him at first, but he’s grown on me as I’ve come to respect him as a musician. The guy’s for real, he’s no one hit wonder.
Prepprepprep…
Springsteen – Night – Bruce. What else can I say? You have to stop and turn it up.
Prepprepprep…
Terri Clark – Girls Lie Too – I like Terri Clark. I think she’s cuter than hell, I like her voice, and this is the kind of country song that makes me like country: clever, good turn of a phrase, good hook.
Prepprepprep…
Jimmy Ray – Are You Jimmy Ray? – I mention this only because of the coincidence that this is caming up while I’m writing just a day or two after I wrote about it.
Prepprepprep…
Rush – Limelight – I love Rush. Love them. I saw them in concert once, back in the 80’s on the Moving Picture tour. I remember very little of it because there were … extenuating circumstances.
I was in high school at the time, a senior. My girlfriend was moving back to Switzerland after graduation, and for reasons that I can’t remember and which probably wouldn’t make much sense if I did, she somehow came to be living with my family for the last week or so before she left. Take one horny virgin teenaged boy, add a live-in girlfriend and lax parental supervision, and you’ve got a party! Woo! But not a great party. Because my girlfriend wasn’t about to just give it up. No, she had to torture me first. So I was at the best party in town but I couldn’t really … lets say “play with the favors.”
Meanwhile, my friends Alex and Rick and I, we have tickets to see Rush. So the day of the concert my girlfriend and I spent much of the afternoon alone at my house, on the couch, um, touching the favors. Petting them, shall we say. Until by the time Alex and Rick came to pick me up to go to the concert, certain party favors of mine were a distinct shade of blue. And painful. Oh, so very, very painful. Walking hurt. Getting in the car hurt. Riding in the car hurt. Everything hurt. I hurt.
We stopped by Rick’s dad’s house to hang out before leaving for the concert. While we were there, my blue party favors began turning purple. New levels of pain were reached and then surpassed. I was in sad shape. So Rick’s dad broke out a mason jar of moonshine and poured me a shot. That hurt too, but it also helped. So I had another one. And I think I might have had one more. Moonshine makes your memory fuzzy. And then he gave me a pill, too. I thought it was a painkiller, but looking back on it and knowing Rick’s dad it might well have been a Quaalude. I didn’t care what it was, I was hurting: I took it.
I began to feel better. A lot better. Human, even. And then as we got to the concert and found our seats, I began to feel sleeepppyyyy…. I remember taking a hit off a joint someone passed me. I remember drinking some wine from the bota bag we smuggled in. I remember struggling to stay awake. I remember forcing myself to hold my head up and look at the screen on the stage during Red Barchetta. And that’s all I remember of that night.
So I’ve seen Rush in concert once. Sort of. At least I can say I was there.
Oh, and my girlfriend and I finally had our party before she left. She insisted that I wear not one but two, um, “party hats.” And it was still a really short party. But the best I’d ever been to.
And now… It’s 1:30 and I still have to figure out what I’m wearing tomorrow when I leave for work in five and a half hours. I’ve gone further though the book tonight than I probably will get through tomorrow, so I’m calling it a night.
And fucking hell, now it’s raining. Great, I was going to ride the motorcycle in tomorrow. That just added half an hour to my commute. Greeaatt…
See ya…
Blame the Defective Yeti:
These are my URL ABCs:
I held an impromptu movie quote trivia contest recently with the prize being the right/honor/punishment/opportunity to write a guest entry here. My close personal friend and former coworker Gavin won, and then promptly dropped the ball and didn’t write me an entry. It’s been almost two weeks now and he’s barely updating his own journal, let alone writing for mine, so I’m farming the job out. I’m offering his guest entry to someone else — preferably someone who’ll actually write one.
I think we’ll have another movie quote contest to choose Gavin’s replacement since the last contest worked so well. I’ll even do you a favor this time and use a quote with the character’s name in it. Identify the movie this quote comes from and you’ll be the big winner. First place is a guest entry here. Second place is you don’t have to write one. No fair Googling. Go:
When some wild-eyed, eight-foot-tall maniac grabs your neck, taps the back of your favorite head up against the barroom wall, looks you crooked in the eye and asks you if ya paid your dues, you just stare that big sucker right back in the eye, and you remember what ol’ Jack Burton always says at a time like that: “Have ya paid your dues, Jack?” “Yes sir, the check is in the mail.”
Cholula hot sauce
Really really fucking hot
My tongue is in love
I’m going to try a new blogging exercise for this entry. After I finish typing this intro I’m going to set my watch’s timer for minutes/seconds of whatever time it is at that point (7:15 = 7 minutes, 15 seconds, for example), and then I’m going to start the timer and write until the alarm goes off. I’ll stop right there, put in any links necessary, and then publish whatever we’ve got as is. Deal? Deal.
Both Beth and my mom hate my last entry. They say it makes it sound like we live in filth. I dunno, is finding cat shit in the bathtub every day a sign of filth? I’d say there’s a judgement call to be made there. Look, our house isn’t a pigsty, but let’s face facts: we have pets. A buttload of them. And pets make mess. So we don’t live in filth but, sorry Mom and Beth, we don’t exactly live in a house where you can eat off the floor — or would want to.
I’ve been listening to Willie Nelson pretty obsessively for the last few days, a greatest hits album that I listened to pretty obsessively back in the 80’s. I picked it up the other night at our local Second Spin for cheap, used. Almost every time I’m there I also buy a mystery CD. I go to the cheapo bin and pick one at random. I figure for a buck or two I’ll take a chance that I might find something I like. This time I got something by a swing band called Speakeasy Spies. Not bad, but… Eh. I did find something good that way once. Once. It was the debut (and last, apparently) CD from a guy named Jimmy Ray. It had a few decent songs on it, but it sort of also belonged in the bargain bin anyway.
Right now on the iTunes I’ve got AC-DC going. I guess this is turning into a music entry. Writing under the gun, you write about whatever is
