Monday, May 21, 2007

An Interview With Paris Hilton

In an effort to keep the material here on Plainly Ranting fresh and up to date with current events, I have managed to land an interview with America's favorite hotel heiress herself: Paris Hilton.

Alan Wortman: Good afternoon. I'm glad you could find the time to give this interview.

Paris Hilton: Yeah. My agent said this would be, like, good for publicity and stuff. I don't think I've ever given a website interview before, you know? If you're, like, nervous about being around me and stuff, I understand. It's normal, yo. I'm just so rich and hot . . .

Alan: Right.

Paris: . . . and sexy and better than you and . . .

Alan: Uh-huh . . .

Paris: . . . heir to multiple bajillions of dollars and powerful and . . .

Alan: Hey, here's an idea. Sit down and shut up. I don't have all day and you're pissing me off already.

Paris: . . .

Alan: All right. So you're ten minutes late, and I'm on a timetable. Let's get started.

Paris: That mean man in the black dress said the same thing.

Alan: Black dress? You mean Judge Sauer? The one who recently passed sentence on you?

Paris: Like, yeah! I honestly don't see what the problem is. I was like, what-EVER! Like, he couldn't even wait ten minutes and stuff! Unsophisticated clods just don't understand that being late is, like, fashionable, yo!

Alan: Wait a minute. You showed up ten minutes late for court and you expected the Judge to just be okay with this?

Paris: Well duh! I guess you didn't know that, like, the world revolves around me, or whatever. Like, we rich people are supposed to, like, have special rights and priviledges, yo.

Alan: *blink blink* . . . right. So, uh, okay, let's start this interview. What's it like knowing that the entire Western world hates your guts for being such a bitch?

Paris: It's not so bad. Little people just, like, confuse bitchiness for knowing that you're, like, ten times better than anyone you've ever met, you know?

Alan: Some people would say that's the definition of being a bitch.

Paris: Some people aren't as, like, rich and sophisticated as I am, yo.

Alan: Did I mention I really hate you?

Paris: (laughs) You're, like, really funny!

Alan: I'm serious. I hate you.

Paris: Oh.

Alan: I understand that you'll be going to jail for a while. Is that true?

Paris: I don't like to, like, you know, talk about it and stuff.

Alan: Has anyone ever told you that the word "like" isn't an adjective?

Paris: So, like, what's that supposed to mean?

Alan: That was my point in its entirety, actually.

Paris: I don't get it. You're, like, SO not funny.

Alan: There are people who would disagree with you on that one.

Paris: Like who?

Alan: Oh, everybody. But we're not talking about me, we're talking about why you're such a self-important fuck-up. You're going to be put away for 45 days, eh?

Paris: It's not fair! All I did was have, like, a DUI, a reckless driving charge, and uh . . . drove on a suspended license, and, like, didn't go to a driving workshop like the last judge dude ordered me to!

Alan: You're aware that anyone else would be sent up for at least three months for those charges, right?

Paris: You don't understand. I'm Paris Hilton! They can't treat me this way! My daddy owns, like, a big hotel chain!

Alan: Oh yes, they can. And they will. I suggest showing up on time for your jail sentence at the new greybar hotel. I hear it's really posh . . . you uppity cunt.

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Wednesday, March 21, 2007

The Convenience Of Truth

There's a crappy pseudo-scientific documentary about climate change floating around called "An Inconvenient Truth". Maybe you've seen it or at the very least you've heard about it. Former Vice President Al Gore spent a lot of time and money making this traveling slideshow (side show?), about the dangers of CO2 and it's effect upon the environment. It's even possible that he believes what he's saying, and that's rather frightening.

As I write this, I've just finished seeing this bell-rattling, chicken little-esque docu-drama and sob story, and I'm not impressed. And I'm unimpressed for several reasons.

First, Gore underestimates the intelligence of his audience and plays more on fear and emotion than common sense and reason. Nobody cares about how his son got hit by a car when he was a small tyke when the focus of the lecture was supposed to be on climate. Nobody cares about how his friend died of lung cancer because she smoked when we're supposed to be paying attention to the "science" he's supposedly presenting. Gore needs to at least stay on topic if he's not going to come up with good data. Pleas for sympathy and emotionalism aren't substitutes for logic and critical thinking. Just the opposite in fact. And let's not forget the three segments in which he whines like a little girl about not being elected president.

Now I'm not heartless. It's a crying shame that his boy was ran over by a car, and I wouldn't wish that on anybody. At least he survived and is healthy now. It's an even bigger shame that his friend died of lung cancer, and for what it's worth Plainly Ranting sends its sympathies. But that's not the fucking point! ...and I didn't vote for him.

Here's Gore's presentation in a nutshell:

  1. CO2 is the greenhouse gas responsible for the increased temperatures in the lower atmosphere.

  2. We are responsible for the CO2.

  3. As CO2 levels rise, the temperatures will immediately follow and the icecaps will melt.

  4. When the icecaps melt, the sea levels will rise by at least 20 feet.

  5. When the sea levels rise, our coastline will flood and millions of people will be displaced.

  6. And it's all your fault.

*sigh* Where to begin? How about we kick things off with the fact that CO2 is a trace atmospheric gas? Is that a good place to start? According to NASA, the Earth's atmosphere is made up of about 78% Nitrogen, around 21% Oxygen, 0.93% Argon, and finally in last place is CO2, carbon dioxide, at 0.04%. That's four one-hundredths of one percent. What's more, CO2 isn't a particularly good "greenhouse gas" in the first place.

Now on to the next item: Gore says we are responsible for the CO2 levels in the atmosphere. Is that true? Well, not exactly. We do contribute to the total carbon dioxide emissions released into the atmosphere, yes. But then again so does everything else on the entire planet. In fact, our contribution to atmospheric CO2 levels are in the single digit percentages when compared to volcanism, decomposing vegetation, and the granddaddy of them all, the oceans.

You may ask what is the major "greenhouse gas" if not CO2? Okay, you asked for it. I just hope you're sitting down.

It's water vapor.

That's right. Water vapor in the atmosphere is the major thing that traps heat from the sun, not CO2. Should we concentrate on banning water because it's an evil greenhouse gas? Damn the evil Dihydrogen Monoxide!

Okay, let's get serious. What percentage of the "greenhouse effect" is caused by humans? By the numbers, it's about 0.28% if water vapor is taken into account and about 5.53%, if it isn't. This is so crucial to the debate over global warming that it's inclusion or omission makes the difference between describing either a significant human contribution to the greenhouse effect, or a negligible one. Water vapor is responsible for about 95% of the "greenhouse effect, with CO2 owning up to just over 3.5%. Gore, naturally, decided to omit this little item. The U.S. Department of Energy actually conceded that it might be a "little misleading" to leave water vapor out of these calculations, but nonetheless defended the practice by stating that it is "customary" to do so.

In English, if you cherry pick the data, (as Gore and the D.O.E. are wont to do), humanity is killing itself and ruining the environment. If you include all the factors, (which the U.S. Department of Energy customarily didn't see fit to do), global warming due to greenhouse gas emissions is an embarrassingly gooey crock of fragrant bullshit. Gore's just there to stir it occasionally lest it form a crust and deprive us all of its delightful emanations.

So what about item 3 : "As CO2 levels rise, the temperatures will immediately follow and the icecaps will melt."?

Do we really need to do this one? Okay. For Science.

The above statement suggests that there is a direct link between CO2 and atmospheric temperatures. In fact, Gore says as much in his little crap-umentary. He also says that the link between them is "complicated". What he doesn't say is that the link is backwards. Atmospheric CO2 doesn't drive temperature, temperature drives atmospheric CO2 concentration!

What? How's that again? That's not what I was told!

That's because you've been listening to the media again. Shame on you.

The link that Gore alluded to, (and wisely didn't follow up on in an attempt to keep from shooting himself in the foot), is that there is an 800 year lag between the temperature going up or down and a corresponding rise or fall in CO2 concentration. But why?

Oceans again. Remember when I said that the oceans were the granddaddy of all carbon dioxide emitters? I was serious. The warmer the oceans, the more CO2 they surrender to the atmosphere. The colder the oceans, the more CO2 they sequester. The fact is that the oceans are huge. They're so huge in fact that it takes hundreds of years for them to cool off or warm up. Thus the enormous time lag.

So what about the icecaps? They're cyclic. They grow and contract every year. That's just the way it works. Permafrost melts, too. Want proof? There's green shit frozen inside it. Plants. Frozen. In the permafrost. There are nutrients in the soil for things to grow. Again, dead plants. It couldn't have been frozen since the beginning of time or the dead plants wouldn't be down there. And animals! Frozen steppe bison! Wooly mammoths! These things didn't live underground you know.

The icecaps are glaciers. They advance and retreat. Right now they're in a period of retreat and it's not the end of the world. They'll surge back.

As for the rise in ocean levels? Well, I guess a lot of people will have to move. Oh! That's right! I forgot... All this is based on anthropogenic (man-made) CO2 levels being responsible for the increase in global temperatures. It's not.

The other two points take care of themselves.

Gore says several times during "An Inconvenient Truth" that "This is a political issue..." when referring to one of the points he's pulled out of his ass. This is understandable. The man is a politician, and he's out politicking with this thing. I wouldn't be surprised to see him make another run on the White House in 2008. Those phrases alone are enough to make the whole enterprise suspect, but consider these others.

  • On Scientific Consensus:

    "Isn't there a disagreement among scientists as to whether the problem [of global warming] is real or not? Actually, not really..."

    Dear Mister Gore,
    I'm a scientist and I'd just like to say fuck you. I vehemently disagree with you because you have cherry picked your data, and then proceeded to interpret it however the hell you want.

    Have a nice day,

  • Lake Chad:

    This lake is shown to dry up in time lapse photography over a course of three decades. But wait... didn't it start drying up in the 60's when we were being told that we were headed toward another ice age because global temperatures were falling?

  • Ice in General:

    Gore claims to understand the physics of ice and glacial surges when no physicist claims to do so.

  • Theory vs. Fact:

    Gore further claims that dissenting scientists, (read: the ones that don't agree with his evangelism), are using the word "theory" to mean "guess", and that there was some "internal memo" between them to rewrite global warming as a "...theory rather than fact".

  • Everybody Knows Doctors Prefer Marlboros:

    Attempts to link global warming skeptics with 1950's Camel tobacco company ads promoting smoking as a perfectly safe and healthful activity. The Gore family grew and raised tobacco when former Vice President Gore was a little boy around this period. But he's learned his lesson now. Promise. My ass...

  • Our Reports Are Better Than Yours:

    Gore cites 928 peer reviewed articles concerning climate change in the previous ten years, claims that a consensus was reached that humans were the cause of global warming. If you listen closely he says that they "took a big sample of ten percent" of these, and that out of that sample, none disagreed. That's 93 articles that said we were the cause. He wants you to believe that all 928 articles agreed with his cause. However, this is NOT what he says.

  • What's Good For The Goose...:

    "It is difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends upon his not understanding it."

    -- Upton Sinclair

    Gore used this quote that could just as easily apply to him and his constituents. If man wasn't responsible for global warming, then people like him wouldn't have a job. So instead of listening to the conflicting data, it's easier to make alarmist claims.

  • Debate? Oh Hell No!

    Since Al Gore was offered the opportunity (in person) by JunkScience writer Steven Milloy to set up a public debate on the underlying science of global climate change, 1 year, 2 months, 2 weeks, and 2 days have elapsed. He has yet to take the man up on his offer.

I think we're done here.

For further investigation:
Last week, the UK's Channel 4 premiered a 75 minute film entitled "The Great Global Warming Swindle" located below. Double click on the movie to play. (Runtime 01:15:58)

What do you want to bet that this asshole runs for office in 2008?

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Monday, January 08, 2007

The Asshole Of The World

You know something? Nothing of interest seems to be going on anymore. Not really, I mean. Wars in foreign lands where people are already killing each other anyway is about it, and I'm plain old fucking sick of it being on my T.V. Perhaps the media has left me jaded. Or perhaps the media is composed of a bunch of Politically Correct, shit-smearing fuckwads that can't think of anything else to sensationalize. I'm pulling for #2. Take that however you want to.

Just think about it. All you hear about in the media is Iraq and the crump of car-bombs in the sandy places where people should have good sense enough to move from. And if the truth be told, we shouldn't even be there reporting on it. Everyone in the Middle East can all go fuck a camel and blow themselves to holy hell for all I care. And if they do, I hope to God that nobody covers it.

You know what I think we should do? I think we should piss of the entire world and bring our troops home so they don't get shot at anymore. Right now. Totally unannounced. They don't need us there. They don't want us there because assistance from infidels is an affront to Islam. So I say let these Israeli motherfuckers, the Shiite motherfuckers, the Sunni motherfuckers and all the other motherfuckers as yet unnamed just murder each other in the name of God.

With nukes. I understand that he likes that kind of stuff. Hellfire and brimstone and all that, you know?

And concerning Iran, I have another great idea. Everybody's worried about the Middle East becoming volatile, (Becoming? What the fuck do they mean becoming?), and nuclear proliferation, but this is really a self-correcting problem. Let's leave Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and his bomb factory alone so they can make all the enriched uranium that they want and let's leave it completely unchecked. For fun. With any luck, the first place he'll wipe off the map will be Israel. Won't that be fun? Mass murder in the "Holy Land"!

Oh wait. I say that like it's a new thing.

Why am I so callous, even hostile, concerning Israel? Do I believe that they don't have a right to exist? Am I a Palestinian booster or something?

No. Nuke the god damned Palestinians too so we'll be sure we've got everybody that needs getting. I believe Israel had a right to exist, right up until they made a particular comment about the atrocities occuring in the former balkan nation of Czeckoslovakia:

"Sometimes ethnic cleansing is necessary."

Yep, there went your card assholes.

And let's get out of the UN too while we're at it. All they're good for is getting our soldiers killed for things we don't have any interest in. The United States is not the world's police force. Stop fucking up your country and then screaming for us to come bail you out so you can hate us for it later.

Oh! Oh! I know! I KNOW! Let's blow up the god damned moon too! I'm sick of the moon. All it does is make the werewolves antzy and fuck with tides. I spoke with a werewolf friend of mine just the other day and he told me that his clothing expenses were really busting his balls. And that's to say nothing of the whole "Wake up naked the next morning and not have any idea where you are" thing. Can you imagine just how embarrassing that is? You were out on a date, and the moon comes along and makes you wolf-out. Then you black out as you shred your best Aeropostale sweater and destroyed jeans, and kill your girlfriend in a fit of evil, lupine rage just as you were starting to make out with her. Then you tear across the countryside committing wanton acts of violence and mayhem: maiming some, killing others, and generally having a pleasant evening. But the next thing you know, you're waking up facedown in the middle of a public park in your birthday suit with squirrels flitting hither and yon while occasionally sniffing your privates and some hobo attempting to invade your middle east and teabag you.

In short, you have a great time, but you can't remember it in the morning. And you need a new girlfriend.

I like porkchops.

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Sunday, December 31, 2006

Night Of The Living Thoughts!

  • I've noticed that most minorities are vocal. Why is that? Can't we have a vocal majority in this sick fucking country for once?

  • Sometimes you look around at the world and realize that you've just gotta beat up a total stranger with an axe, don't you?

  • I often find that swearing at things makes them work better. This is especially true of my employees.

  • During World War II, ficticious cultural icons such as Rosie the Riviter and Uncle Sam entered the public consciousness, and these epic figures still remain in our collective social memory to this day. However what is not so widely known is that there were other icons which were swept under the rug such as Harold the 4F Wife Fucker, and Trixie the VD Free Prostitute.

  • If you want to stay home from work, but you've used up all of your sick days, try calling in dead. It may not get you the day off, but hey, I bet it'll sure fuck with your boss.

  • Religion is the belief in holy shit!

  • We have three different octane grades of gasoline in this country and just one unlabeled grade of diesel fuel. Does anyone else think that's odd?

  • Know what'd be fun? Forming a U.S. Olympic Hide-And-Go-Seek team.

  • The RIAA is in a pissy fit over the downloading of music and burning of CD's. I can see the illegal downloading part, but the burning? That just doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me. If I'm burning the CD, why would the RIAA care? I should think they'd mind me burning CD's before I bought them, but afterward? Hey, it's my property and I'll do with it what I choose. I can see them getting concerned about someone setting fire to the whole music store, but a CD you've already paid for? That's crazy. ...Unless burning CD's release evil greenhouse gasses and they don't want anyone to know. I knew this had something to do with global warming.

  • Any time science makes a bold stride forward, you can count on organized religion being there to try and knock it back two.

  • He who laughs last draws odd looks from everyone else who already got it.

  • Let's legalize the Constitution! Who knows? It might just work. It certainly hasn't been tried yet.

  • If there really is an afterlife, why do the majority of the world's religions condemn murder? Are they just not sure of themselves?

  • Can't we think of something evil to do to those special people who stuff your inbox with chain letters? Happy Bear! A Smile For You! The Littlest Angel! (Aww!!)

    Jesus fucking Christ go drink some chemicals already and stay the hell out of my inbox.

  • Remember: When you tie up someone with Duct Tape and throw them off a bridge into a lake or river, always leave a hole for their nose and mouth so they can breathe. Safety first.

  • And by the way, it's breathe with an "e". Not "Breath". A runner may find himself out of breath after a long cross-country session, but not because he forgot to breathe while he was running. If this is too complicated for you, go shove a pogo stick up your ass and practice bouncing down the stairs for a few hours. Or just quit talking to people. That works too.

  • Definitions

    Catholic Mass: (n) Kath·uh·lik Mas
    A measure of fat in a parish.

    Grilled Chicken: (n) Grild chik·in
    a An automotive accident involving poultry. Common in rural areas.
    bThe interrogation of a frightened individual.

    Mass Suicide: (n) Mas Su·uh·sId
    A religious tragedy involving Kool Aid. See also: Jones, Jim.

    Mass Orgy: (n) Mas Or·gee
    A Catholic Priest's wet dream.

  • A book never written: "Overpopulation in China by Wee Fukum Yung"

  • Suicide is interesting. It's the only act that I can think of which is a crime to attempt, yet not illegal to perform. Sort of like jaywalking, only not at all.

  • Fun in Court!

    Just imaging going in front of the judge for bashing some asshole's teeth out with a pipe wrench for twenty minutes, and when he asks you why you did it...

    "Why'd I do it? 'Cause fuck him. That's why, yer honor."

    And make sure when you're asked how you plead to the charges to respond, "Not Interested". They'll actually have to break out the lawbooks to figure out what to do with you.

  • I'm wishing some day a team will change it's name to the Nads. That way all the fans on both sides will cheer for 'em. Think of it... tens of thousands of drunk, rabid fans chanting "Go Nads! Go Nads! Go Nads!"

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Wednesday, December 27, 2006

You Are An Insignificant Dust Speck

Let's get something absolutely straight before we go any farther: You matter less than a cockroach's fart in the grand scheme of the Universe. And the sooner you realize that, the sooner you can stop screaming at me about the way I should:

a) Live my life

b) Think

c) Feel

d) Give a flying fuck about your opinion

Failing that, I can always beat you into an unrecognizable red paste.

What's more, any and all attempts to get me to give a damn will fail, and cause my Delete key unnecessary wear and tear. Believe me when I tell you that you are not somebody. Just because you're unique and all that crap doesn't mean you're particularly important or of any special use. Most likely you've done little more to improve the human condition than metabolize oxygen, just like everybody else. Think about it this way: Consider the humble driveway gravel. Every single stone is unique and beautiful in it's own way and all that happy horse shit, but when taken as a mass, they're only good to park your fucking car on.

FACTOID: The Earth's population reached 6.5 Billion last Saturday.

Your house payment doesn't matter. Your car payment doesn't matter. Your ugly fucking kid's soccer game doesn't matter. So just send me all your money since it doesn't matter anyway. And be risky. Do it through the U.S. Postal Service.

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Sunday, October 01, 2006

The Last Load

(Bonus Article)

This is not a humor piece, nor is it a rant. I just want to make that clear before we go any further. Also, there is no post image as I can't seem to locate any photos of the accident. I'll put one up as soon as I find one.

This was my first submission in my Honors English Composition class at Arkansas State University. I include it here as proof that I'm not just ignoring my readers, and that I haven't forgotten you guys. In addition to recieving an A+, this piece also recieved applause when I read it aloud in class. To my delight, my professor later asked permission to shop it around to a few people on campus for purposes of getting it published. I'll let you know how that turns out. I hope you enjoy it.

My baby had a candy black paint job, dual stacks, and a big engine that could pull hills without working hard, even when I was loaded down at seventy-nine five. I tell ya', she was one hell of a girl. Stretched out long, her all aluminum wheelbase was 214" from hub to hub, and her rubber was virgin. The Freightliner was my home, my office, and my playpen all rolled into one. And now here we were about to get the last load for the week, and the week had been hard. We'd pulled just shy of 2800 miles in the last five days, this truck and me, with five deliveries and five reloads. I wanted a rest, and the old girl wanted some new oil.

I reached out a hand to the chrome door handle and pulled. There was a sound of a latch falling open and a blast of cool air rolled out and over me. I grabbed the handrail and pulled myself into the cab, where my air-ride seat greeted me with a familiar squeak. Closing the door with a whump, I adjusted myself behind the wheel and took note of the air pressure gauge, 120 lbs. in both tanks. Okay. Good enough for me. I pushed off the yellow and red air brake buttons on the dashboard with a light thump and listened to the hiss of pressurized air flood through the brake lines.

Putting the truck in second gear, I eased out on the clutch until I felt the clutch plate grab and feathered the accelerator before letting off the left pedal completely.

I followed the directions to the loading area and began setting up my trailer for the lumber I was about to take on. Shortly, a black man resembling Issac Hayes in a pair of mouse colored coveralls, safety glasses and blue hard hat tears up to me on a well-abused kerosene powered forklift. And it stinks.

We don't like each other, this man and I. He takes my paperwork and loads my truck, but I know full well that he’ll try to get away with a doing a half-assed job just so he can go home an hour early if I don’t watch him. These yard guys knock off whenever they get done, not when the whistle blows.

He’s finally done fifteen minutes later, and he tries to rush me to get out of the way so he can load his last truck. I lash things down to my satisfaction before moving. This has the predicted effect of pissing off the forklift operator, but I don’t care. I already told you we didn’t like each other. The important thing was that we were finally going home, me and my girl. We were going home to mama’s house with a real bed, good food, showers you don’t have to pay for and, uh, *ahem* … certain activities. I eased forward and began my circuit around the big metal warehouse that would lead me back to the outbound scales.

The resulting dust cloud was an enormous, foglike thing that briefly obscured a good portion of the world. I took a few minutes to enjoy the air conditioning before I set about a job that I didn't want to do. The last hurdle always seems to be the highest.

About an hour later I'm covered in grime, sweat, and whatever profanities that stuck. But the load's on my trailer, and it looks good. Now all I had to do is just go home for the weekend, and everything would be all right. I climbed back into the driver's seat which squeaked at me again, and I looked at myself in the mirror. I was totally covered in grime, and I looked as though I'd been dragged behind a pickup truck on a farm through a watermelon patch. I washed my hands with Windex and a roll of paper towels that I carried with me, and I set out for home. Oppressive, the clouds were all of a cross between iron and old lead. I watched them chase the sun out of the sky as the miles fell away.

I don't know what time it was. It was just dark. The only illumination in my cab came from my instrument panel like electric corpselight. I'd been fighting switchback two lane for a couple of hours and now I was finally on the Big Road: I-55. The way home. I was all alone on the highway, feeling really good about myself and about the week I had just finished. It was that special kind of satisfaction that only comes after completing a tiring chore you've been dreading. All that was on my mind was collecting my check for the week and going home. The 425 Detroit under my hood was purring like a well-fed lion with its steady drone. Prrr … Prrr … Prrr... I barely noticed the light rain that had begun to fall, and my tires hissed *SSSthsss* as they threw up spray. Dimly I thought it would be a good idea to hit the wipers.

This part of Mississippi had been without appreciable rainfall for over six months, and the ground was hard and dry. It was so dry in fact that it no longer immediately soaked up water, but instead it pooled on top for a bit, while the earth below made up it's mind about what it had been missing. It was layered like an onion, with water on the very top, a thin layer of oversaturated mud just below that, and hard, stonelike earth underlying everything. My tires were *SSSthsss* through the water, my engine was *prrr*, and the wipers, *fwip-kwok ... fwip-kwok ... fwip-kwok ...*

The temperature had dropped a great deal since that afternoon, and I had slouched in my seat as I was wont to do. I was tired, sure, but I was far from needing to pull over just yet. Eventually though, the cold started to get to me. I had gone from being slightly uncomfortable to something on the high side of irritated, and I wanted heat. I reached for the climate controls, only half paying attention to what I was doing, and flipped the heat to full blast.

*fwip-kwok ...*

It was one of those decisions that you kick yourself for after you've already made it. I hadn’t noticed the blower was set to defrost. Instantly, the window in front of me went completely and totally white. I couldn’t see!

Time divorced itself from me as my heart thumped once and hung in my throat like a soggy sock. Here I was making 75 miles per hour and I couldn't see! Still slouched in my seat, I tried to reach the windshield.

I couldn't.

*fwip-kwok ...*

What to do? What to do, damn it! THINK!! I was too tired. Th-this wasn't happening. I … Why can't I think? Brakes? BRAKES!! I showered down on the brakes.

*fwip-kwok ...*

I felt my left steer tire go slimy on me through the wheel. What did it mean? It seemed like a rather important bit of information to have. Suddenly, I knew it meant that I'd crossed the highway, gone into the left hand lane and dropped off the shoulder onto the median, that’s what it meant. I locked my hands and arms into a deathgrip on that steering wheel that a gorilla in the fullness of fury couldn't break. Ride it out and ride it straight, that was the key. I just hoped to God there wasn't a bridge coming up.

*fwip-kwok ...*

I felt the trailer tires drop off into the snotty mud next, and then things got really bad. My caboose weighed far more than my cab, so it was the determining factor in the show. It had twice my mass and all of my inertia, meaning that it required twice the resistance that I did to slow down, much less stop. To put it another way, Newton was now in the driver’s seat, and I was just along for the ride. My trailer decided to pass me.

I attempted to turn into it, attempted to save things, which I naively still believed I could do. I gave up on the idea pretty quick. I was sideways in the highway at this point, so now I was crossing it again and heading for the dropoff on the other side of the road. I cut my wheels sharply to the left, and I felt the whole truck start to list and roll to starboard. I could see the ground coming up at me through my driver's side window. "Oh no! I've wrecked my truck," thought I. That's when I heard the damndest thing.

*fwip-kwok ...*

I turned loose of the wheel, which had become useless to me at that point, and I placed my hands on the roof above, determined to keep it from crushing me. It was a surreal thing, watching the accident from the inside like this. I saw the ground coming up at me, and I knew this was really going to hurt. The nature of my emotional state surprised me. I wasn't afraid for myself. There wasn't any panic. What was done was done. But I do remember having the most amazing thought.

"Joy isn't going to take this well,” and I was sad.

I was in the paradoxical state of being aware of everything and nothing all at the same time. I kept wondering what was going to be torn away from me or crushed first. Would it be my legs that would be severed by the dashboard as it met the floor? Or would my skull be crushed by the roof when my arms failed to hold up the weight of a 26,000 lb cab? Maybe I’d get lucky and my neck would just break before my melon popped. Or might an artery be severed by a jagged piece of something or other and bleed me out? What was it going to feel like, dying violently like this? Would it hurt long? I just didn't know.

Fast forward and too late. The world was back in high gear again.

Glorious noise, to confusion, to frenzy, to silence; all but the patter of rain. I wondered which way was up. Things had gotten a little muddled there, and I thought it a good idea to take stock of my appendages and favorite organs. Four limbs. Hey, that's a good sign. I flexed my toes and felt them respond inside my boots. Ditto the fingers. I closed one eye, switched to the other one. Both working. Okay, now how the hell do I get out of this tin can? The truck sure was funny-shaped, and everything had relocated itself considerably. The dashboard had fallen black as ink, taking the rest of the cab with it. I forced myself to a rational place and tried to locate gravity's familiar tug. I found it. It wasn’t coming from its customary direction, but that was something anyway.

*fwip ... skwerrrrnk*

I laughed then, right about the time that a head stuck itself inside my window alongside a miniature electric sun. It was a man, and he appeared concerned.

The pane of glass on that side had shattered on impact, (I forget which one), so he took off his coat and draped it over the jagged pieces as the rain fell. I heard sirens and saw flashing lights as I was climbing out of the window into the damp, breezy blackness, and I smelled earth. I was led to a car by a nameless individual where an attractive young woman in plain clothes checked my vitals and asked me the standard battery of questions.

There was something I had to do. I excused myself and walked back through what had become a downpour to all that was left of my beautiful, black Freightliner. She was a twisted hulk of fiberglass, steel and plastic, and seeing her this way stirred up something inside me that I didn’t like. She lay there on her side in the middle of the interstate we’d traveled together for so long, bleeding oil. Her stacks were broken, and her mighty engine had fallen silent. The only sign of life was a single windshield wiper that still flapped pathetically. She’d died saving me.

I rested a hand on the shattered and torn fender like a mourner at a casket, feeling the smooth rain-slicked paint. I couldn’t say anything for a while.

“I’m … I’m sorry, girl”, I finally managed. “Thank you.”

*fwip ... skwerrrrnk*

Then I turned and walked toward the people and the flashing lights. I was glad it was raining.

The Author would like to assure the reader that all the events in this tale happened in the manner and order specified. While the Mississippi State Trooper who responded to the accident didn’t see fit to write a ticket and judged the accident to be due to the weather, the Author’s boss at the time saw fit to fire him. Apparently the only explanation he was taking was that the Author had fallen asleep at the wheel, which did not occur.

Presently Mr. Wortman lives in Paragould, Arkansas with his wife Joy and their four dogs. He is currently pursuing a degree in Physics. Where it’s safe.

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Good Ol' Wal-Mart

Gatorade, Suzy-Q's, Vaccum cleaners, Rubber shoes,
Pez dispensers, Floss for dentures, Books of Kids Next Door Adventures,
Everything you need right here at Wal-Mart.

Computer games, Pretty rocks, Bouncing balls and Argyle socks,
Ugly faces, Kids with braces, Tennis shoes with Neon Laces,
Things to make your life complete at Wal-Mart.

Makeup Kits and T.V. Shows, Oven mits and Panty Hose,
Table saws and C cup bras to minimize your Body's Flaws,
We promise not to snicker here at Wal-Mart.

Pots and pans for kitchen toil, Windshield wipers, Motor oil,
All-day roasters, Silly posters, Fourteen slice Electric Toasters,
You know you couldn't live without a Wal-Mart.

Spark Plugs, Tires, Axle Grease, Stereos and Anti-freeze,
Crafts and hobbies, Doggie toys, Novelties for Making Noise,
What more could you ever ask from Wal-Mart?

Get-Well cards with angels kissing, Fading trends that you've been missing,
Safety rails and Clearance sales and Layaway and Garbage Pails,
Falling prices everywhere at Wal-Mart.

Candy bars and Tabloid Papers glorifying Baby rapers,
Soap and Rope and Orange Scope, A Punching Puppet of the Pope,
We're always proud to sell those here at Wal-Mart.

Brushes, Combs, and Fruit Shampoo, Talcum powder, Diapers too,
Neon Lights and Rainbow Brites and Medicine for Pit-Bull bites,
Don't you know we love you here at Wal-Mart?

A Grocery Store, A Garden Center, Walk-in Bank and Rug Doc Renter,
Robot Mics and Ten-speed bikes and Crappy rides for little tykes,
We treat you just like family at Wal-Mart.

Third world imports, Second-runs, Toy first aid kits, Real life guns,
Skilled employees, Friendly staff, Oh come on man don't make me laugh!
Don't mistake this for a classy joint, it's Wal-Mart.

©2006 Alan Wortman

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Monday, September 18, 2006

All I Ever Needed To Know I Learned In College

As some of you may know, I've finally gotten off my dead ass and went back to school. And already, I've found people who need to be slapped through a few walls. You know the kind. The type of person that makes you sad that the Ebola virus is under control. The kind of human being that allows you to understand the value of Eugenics. The sort of mouth-breathing 98.6° space heater that doesn't have anything better to do that metabolize your oxygen supply. The type of asshole that makes you long for the good old days when the UNAbomber might come along and save the day.

So without further ado, here's a short list of people that just need to be killed.

The Hot Shit One Trick Pony

A brace-faced schmuck with just the tips of his brown hair bleached blonde who think's he's in grade 13, this guy was a whiz in High School chemistry, so now he thinks he's ready for the big time. He spends all his parent's money and creative energies openly mocking the professor's mannerisms and getting girls to laugh at his stupidity under the mistaken premise that they actually like him. Unfortunately, the HSOTP doesn't quite understand that this isn't High School, and there are no laws that protect his GPA. Nor does he grasp the fact that his grade has little to do with his skill in the subject matter of the course, and everything to do with the whim of the PhD teaching it. The HSOTP usually winds up getting a D in the class purely because he's a dick, and loses his scholarship before dropping out.

The Highly Fuckable Airhead

Usually a redhead who likes to hit on the professor, wear clothing designed to make her tits pop out into the sunshine for everyone to admire, and doesn't understand that the whole 'valley girl' thing has been over for more than a decade, this girl is related to the HSOTP above. She's not quite sure how she got into college, but now that she's there, well gee... there sure are a lot of boys around. With $10,000 worth of orthadontia in her head, and almost as much in her fake boobs, the HFA loans out her cunt to almost anyone with a cock and notes she can copy. Typically plans to finish a 4 year degree in 6 years, but then gets pregnant before transferring to a Junior College and dropping out.

Mister Four Eyed Pimple Blimp

The morbidly obese bastard in High School that was friends with all the girls, but never got laid because his crotch-fat absorbed his penis and now he pisses out of a vagina-like hole. Usually a math major, MFEPB makes jokes that only he can understand about Calculus, Wave Functions, and Statistics. Even the HFA can't bring herself to have sex with this guy.

Frat Van Winkle

This specimen subsists on a diet of Pabst Blue Ribbon, Pepperoni Pizza and Ramen Noodles, and tends to stay up late trying to get into the pants of the HFA. However, FVW spends so much time trying to get laid that most of his class time is utilized catching up on sleep, and misses the vast majority of the lecture. Thus, FVW's notes are sketchy at best, and the slam-dunk HFA remains forever out of his reach. Goes into Academic Probation in his second semester and takes a job as a stockboy at Wal-Mart before dropping out.

The Overly Enthusiastic Professor

Occasionally the HFA undergoes a metamorphosis to become the Overly Enthusiastic Professor. Full of energy, never at rest, the Overly Enthusiastic Professor was a cheerleader in High School and never learned to accept that there are things that nobody but her cares about. TOEP will lecture, bouncing off the walls, for hours on end about mathematics. Has an unhealthy interest in Football and Mister Four Eyed Pimple Blimp, who is her favorite student. ...other than the three Muscle Jocks in her class that she's fucking.

Zombie Grad Student

Rarely seen in the working world due to a lack of ability to compete, the Zombie Grad Student was actually smarter before he started college than he is now. Capable of explaining Tensor Calculus and Continuum Mechanics to people who already know it, the ZGS can't remember how to divide. Specimens of ZGS can often be found teaching intro-level courses at the college they attend for the same reason that American farmers hire Mexicans to pick their fruit: Cheap Labor.

Muscle Jock

With an artificially inflated GPA, and Anabolic Steroid inflated muscles, the Muscle Jock is in college for one reason: To play "Fooball". With no career options and no chance of staying off Academic Probation on his own, the Muscle Jock's coach pulls strings with various professors to keep him on the team. Winds up graduating with a BS in fitness that nobody cares about and bagging groceries before going on to teach P.E., Social Studies and Pre-Algebraic Math at a local High School.

The Test Stresser

The only member of the animal kingdom who both sweats audibly and is completely lacking in a spine, the Test Stresser is forever in a state of high tension. With blood pressure perpetually at stroke levels, the Test Stresser is most often a Biology Major who panics about the test they just took, the notes that they are taking, the test that they'll take nextweek, and the state of their current health. Typically dies of a stroke by the age of 35.

The Technobrat

This creature is common on most college campuses, and can easily be identified by it's designer label plumage. Wired for sound, the Technobrat is incapable of being alone with his own thoughts for more than ten seconds, and instantly connects to the Technobrat Collective via his cell phone or MySpace page when feeling lost and insecure, (i.e. the second class is over).

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Monday, September 04, 2006

Steve Irwin, 1962 - 2006

The Crocodile Hunter is dead. Long live the Crocodile Hunter. To be perfectly honest, I'm surprised that Steve lived as long as he did.

On Monday, September 4th, 2006, Steve "Crocodile Hunter" Irwin was pronounced dead after suffering an attack by a Stingray that he was most likely asking for by fucking with. It was described as a 'freak accident' by his camera crew. He was 44 years old.

I'd like to tell you now that while this was definately a tragic loss for Steve's family, this was not an accident. The stingray skewered Steve on purpose, (because he was fucking with it), and as far as it being a freak occurance, that's bullshit too. This was simply the law of averages getting tired of being screwed out of a win. Normally a stingray barb won't kill you unless two things happen. First, the sting would have to be very close to the heart, (as it was), and secondly, there would have to be some kind of allergic reaction to the venom, (and there was). Pretty much you'd have to have built up one tremendous luck deficit to die from this kind of wound. And Steve Irwin is dead. I say this because I know how luck works, and it's not always on your side. That's why they call it luck.

I've maintained for years that Steve was going to die horribly one day, and sure enough I was all too right. Steve made the mistake of believing that his education in the field of zoology kept him safe from these large, predatory animals he was constantly harrassing. Steve was wrong. And what did he die for?


That's right folks. He died risking his life to make a stupid fucking television show. Guess what the title of the show was?

It was a documentary for Animal Planet called Ocean's Deadliest. Yeah. You read that right. Ocean's Deadliest, and it was, ("no shit" moment here), about things that can kill you in the sea. Ain't that a bitch?

The real tragedy here is that Steve Irwin was smart once. He went to college and became a Zoologist. He was taught to understand and respect nature. He busted his ass learning the ups and downs of how wallabies fuck.

Then he started slapping his ass at kimodo dragons and doing everything but poking a bear in the face with a short stick.

Believe me when I tell you that it's one thing to learn about nature. It's quite another to thumb your nose at it; an offense that Steve was guilty of at least three times every show. And he did it all because the fame and the job became more important to him than his drive for self-preservation.

That's mentally ill.

I personally know a great deal about rattlesnakes, cottonmouths, snapping turtles, bears, coyotes and wolves, but you won't see me doing more than finding ways to leave them the fuck alone when I run across them. They want me to leave them alone, and more importantly, I want them to leave me alone. Even less likely is it that I will go out looking for the damned things. Besides, saying that you have concern and respect for wildlife while going around wrestling crocodiles into your johnboat for the cameras and playing with things nature designed to run on people as an optional fuel source is like saying that you're a practicing Catholic and pissing in the holy water. Steve forgot what respect for wildlife was about; he allowed stardom to get in the way of science, self-preservation, and good sense. Now there's a widow and two children without a dad.

Plainly Ranting sends it's condolences to the Irwin family.

Steve Irwin - Zoologist, Environmentalist, Husband, Father
1962 - 2006

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Monday, August 28, 2006

The Incredible Shrinking Thoughts!

  • It strikes me that people tend to get bad advice from role models who should know better.

  • What the fuck is an herbal 'essence'? Absolutely nothing. It's bullshit.

  • We have a 'Natural' psychosis in this country. Everybody is all uppity about natural medicines, natural fibers, and natural remedies for diseases. We have natural disasters, natural history, natural resources, and natural selection. And then there's the study of natural sciences, which is all the rage at hippie schools across the country. But let me tell you something. Just because something is from nature doesn't mean it's good for you. Arsenic, strychnine, lead and mercury are good examples of this.


  • I saw a headline that said violence in the middle east was escalating. Oh really? They're already bombing each other and conducting missile strikes on civilian targets. How do you escalate that?

  • What manner of creature is a Sham? And why do we put it's poo in our hair?

  • Definitions

    Ball joint: (n) bawl·joint
    a. Testicular connective tissue.
    b. A marijuana cigarette smoked exclusively at parties thrown by members of high society.

    Salad: (n) sa·led
    The stuff that food eats

    Marriage: (n) ma·rij
    a. A pre-mortem funeral service
    b. A ceremony celebrating the end of a couple's sexual activity.

    Old Spice: (n) ohld·spIs
    The elderly lady from the now defunct British pop group that nobody talks about.

  • Am I the only one who thinks it's odd that the telephone company charges you extra money not to publish your name and telephone number? It seems to me that it should be the other way around. I figure that they ought to charge you a fee to publish your telephone number. But if that was the case, I bet they'd print a mighty damned thin phone book.

  • If you find yourself having a really bad day, this will help you laugh. All you have to do is realize that right now, even as we speak, in this country, somebody, somewhere is getting fucked up the ass.

  • And now you're picturing it and trying really hard not to.

  • I heard an old guy mention that he used to sew his wild oats, and I thought, "That's impossible. You sew cloth and leather. Oats are a grain. What the hell would you sew them to anyway? And how? More importantly, why?" I think he was senile. Then somebody explained it to me and it made a little more sense. But even still, I don't understand why people can't call dating what it really is; fucking every slut you can throw your dick at. Old people sure are stupid.

  • I read that the State Employment Security Division was laying off a bunch of people.

  • It's been my experience that the simple things in life usually aren't.

  • The news story said the coroner performed a post-mortem autopsy. God damn I sure hope so. Otherwise I'll bet the noise would've been really distracting.

  • Why are blackboards green?

  • How come they don't have a button on your keyboard that you can press whenever you get spam e-mail to make the sender's PC explode into a conflagration of fire and brimstone and ash with a mushroom cloud that can be seen for twenty miles and makes the sender sterile by irradiating his crotch with high-energy gamma particles that cause six different kinds of cancer and gives him constipation while turning his skin irreversibly blue? I'd sure like to have a button like that.

  • The other day I saw a carton that read: Made with at least 100% recycled materials". I started laughing and couldn't stop.

  • I don't want to work anywhere that a smile is considered to be part of my uniform. In fact, I'm not so hot on the idea of working in a place that requires a uniform in the first place. Now that I think about it, I guess I really don't want to work anywhere at all. I love getting paychecks though. I need a job like that.

  • I keep hearing about all kinds of things "coming out of the woodwork". They're usually bad things, too. You know what I think? I think we should burn the fucking woodwork.

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Sunday, August 20, 2006

Computerz R 4 Samrt Ppl!!!!1

Let's talk about PC's. Personal computers. IBM compatible crap.

I think we ought to have a mandatory I.Q. test before you're allowed to own a computer. You should also have to demonstrate a basic, working knowledge of English grammar, punctuation, and spelling before you're allowed to purchase one. If you are caught picking your nose and eating it, drooling, or shitting your pants while taking the test, you fail. Also, trying to copy the answer for your name from a neighbor automatically kicks you out of the running. Let's face facts; not everyone is bright enough to have a PC.

I know this because every single day, and I mean EVERY single day, I have some well-meaning, yet hopelessly deficient schmuck ask me something so basic, so intrinsic to the minimal functionality of a PC that I have to wonder if there's something in the water. Now when I say these questions are basic, I don't mean some longheaded bullshit about the best way to set up a ten disk SATA RAID system capable of multibooting four seperate operating systems. Nor am I talking about flashing your BIOS to the most recent optimized settings from your motherboard manufacturer, oh no. I'm not even talking about setting up a tri-monitor display, a liquid cooling apparatus, or a Beowulf Cluster.

I mean I have to deal with people who have difficulty with concepts such as "left click", "right click", and "double-click". I have to deal with people who tell me that they only allow 20 GB of a 60 GB hard drive to be used because they want to be "safe". And I've fielded questions, so help me God, regarding why a CD ROM drive wouldn't burn CD's.

The following are a few examples of the fun and adventure I've had when trying to help people. I don't get paid for this, and if I did, it wouldn't be enough. It's a wonder I've not committed manslaughter.

The Atrocities

"I downloaded some stuff offline".

Oh really? Holy shit! You mean you downloaded something while not being connected to any other computers? Wow. Kill yourself, would you?

"This computer doesn't have enough gigabytes. It needs more gigabytes."

Did your parents have any children that weren't stillborn? You almost could've kept yourself from sounding like a proffessional wrestling fan by adding the words "Of RAM" to the ends of both those sentences. As it stands, that is the most stupid thing I've ever heard, and I've had to watch the Teletubbies because it was the only thing that would keep my friend's kids quiet. Either that or beating them until they lapsed into a coma.

"It says 'Press Any Key', but I can't find it."

Oh dear God.... Don't breed. Just don't.

"Do you think I should buy a couple of more sticks of ROM?"

Rom. Doesn't. Come. In. Sticks. You want RAM, but you don't deserve it. You might try to put it in your CD RAM drive. Fucktard.

"I think I need to get me some more of them computer deals to put in."

Memorize this sentance, "Would you like fries with that?"

"I got to lookin' on my computer and I found a bunch of funny files that I didn't think should be there, so I deleted them. Now my computer won't work."

A wise decision, sir. They were probably .dll files in your Windows directory. Viruses, they. Thanks for saving me all that time and trouble. Have a nice day.

"I need to buy me a new computer. This one's getting slow."

No, it's just as fast as it ever was. Because you have a habit of installing shit from everywhere on the net from places that you shouldn't trust, and because you have an even worse habit of not reading anything before you install a program, your computer has become choked down with redundant, buggy, and totally useless bullshit. For $50 and twenty minutes of my time, I can have you back up and running like new once more. See you again in six months when you've got it refilled with digital trash.

"How come you never did teach me how to hack?"

Because I don't know how and neither do you. You're annoying, you're full of shit, and you're a complete and total fake. Hacking requires modifying machine code, fucking around with stack dumps, and breaking several laws. You're not a hacker, you're a pathetic dipshit with delusions of adequacy. Burn your computer and do the world a favor.

Who the fuck in the year 2006 doesn't know how to operate a computer? Holy jumping Jesus Christ on a pogo stick! We let these people drive cars!

I'm going to go eat an entire bottle of Excedrin Migraine and lie down for a while. You people are killing me.

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Monday, August 14, 2006

Our Scams Have Detected SPYWARE On YOUR COMPUTER!

Well no fucking shit! Of course you "detected" spyware on my computer. You're the sorry sons-of-bitches that put it on my hard drive in the first place. Your ass-wholesomeness truly knows no bounds, because now you want me to pay you money so you can sell me a product to take it off when it shouldn't have been there to begin with? Why on God's Earth would I be so stupid as to trust you people to keep my computer safe when you're the ones who hijacked my browser and installed three trojan downloaders when I clicked a random link? This is beyond having balls.

I know that there's some asshole out there with a room-temperature I.Q. that's going to suggest changing your browser to Opera or buying a Mac and running Safari because it's more "secure". Now before that happens, I think you special people should know that folks shouldn't have to fuck around with weird browsers or buy computers that are practically unsupported by third party developers. Further, this isn't incentive to move to new software, it's incentive to shore up what you already have because you're familiar with it already. If it wasn't for asshats like you who live for coding abusive and intrusive software, these 'security holes' you claim to be pointing out wouldn't matter, would they?

And here's another thing... there's no such thing as an incorruptible machine. If it crunches numbers and surfs the Internet, it's prone to virii and spyware. Period. End of Line. Fuck you.

Fucked up your pimple-faced plan again, didn't I?

So here's what to do if, and preferably before, you ever get digitally molested while minding your own fucking business online:

1) Get AdAware from Lavasoft. This wonderful piece of software has kept my computer safe from almost all annoyance for a long, long time. It's free to download and the updates don't cost anything either. It'll find what's giving your PC hell and automatically remove it. I promise there's some spyware on there. These guys kick ass.

2) Then download Spybot - Search & Destroy. This is another free program with free updates. Run it after you run an AdAware scan. This is a good complimentary program to AdAware. Sometimes it finds what AdAware doesn't. Neither program is shitty, it's just that two different teams work on this kind of thing, and often one will have a definition that the other doesn't.

3) Next, download and install Spyware Blaster from the good guys over at Javacool Software. This program rocks cocks, as it keeps known spyware from being installed on your PC in the first place, as well as giving you a whole shitpot full of ActiveX controls to play with, should you care.

4) And another thing, quit paying Norton and McAfee a dump truck full of money. It's completely unnecessary. If you want virus protection, download AVG Antivirus from Grisoft. It does the same job for free, and there's no subscription to run out on you and leave you completely fucked when the next supervirus comes along and turns your hard drive into digital shit.

5) Finally, quit with these god damned "browser helpers" and "pop-up blockers" that bog down your PC already. You don't need them, or the "help" they offer. Trust me. They're almost all defined as spyware, and the above programs will detect and treat, (read: delete), them. Try updating your HOSTS file instead. After you download this, install it according to the following directions.

Win 98/ME = C:\WINDOWS

Find your installation above, navigate to the location specified, and drop the new HOSTS file in the folder. (For example, Windows 98/ME users will install to C:\WINDOWS)

Remember, the HOSTS file has no extension, (.exe .txt .dll, etc...), so don't go adding one and then e-mail me bitching that it's not working for you. My Delete key doesn't need a workout.

Drop the new HOSTS file in with the old one. You will be asked to overwrite your old HOSTS file, which should be 1K in size. Do so. No more pop-ups or banner ads. They simply won't work, and you simply won't see them.

Before I leave you this week, I'd just like to leave you with some words of wisdom straight from the bottom of my heart:

"If you can't figure all this out, you're too stupid to operate a computer."

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Monday, July 31, 2006

You're Not African-American Already!

Racism: (n) rA·sĭz·um
a. The belief that race accounts for differences in human character or ability and that a particular race is superior to others.

b. Discrimination or prejudice based on race.

Prejudice: (n) prĕj·U·dĭs
a. An adverse judgment or opinion formed beforehand or without knowledge or examination of the facts.

b. A preconceived preference or idea.


Dear reader, answer me this one question, if you would: What nationality do you consider yourself to be? Chances are that if you're reading this, you were born within the borders of the United States. If you are from one of the other 192 sovereign nations however, then what I say here won't make a whole lot of sense. Although it will at least serve the purpose of shining the pure and blinding light of reason upon the fragile, crumbling edifice that racist, politically correct ass-goblins in this country so laughably call a "point". According to my sources, if the doctor yanked you out of somebody's crotch here within the confines of the United States, or one of it's territories abroad such as a military base or an Embassy, this makes you an American, not an African-American.

I am sad to report that the melting pot is no more in this once great, fading republic. The order of the day is no longer asking what you can do for your country, but rather how your country can compensate you because of something that happened to your great-great grandparents before you were even thought of. Never mind that you've not been personally inconvenienced in any way, and that any of these wrongs you cite weren't done to you. Divide and conquer; that's the new America; made of bottled water, cellular telephones, and sneakers with lights in them.

I have absolutely had it with this "African-American" feces slathered all over everything you read these days when talking about black people. It's mind numbing. This country is already swamped with room-temperature IQ's, and this politically correct bullshit has absolutely got to go before it manages to do any further damage. It's a crying shame that phrases can't be placed in front of a firing squad.

Now that I think of it, it's a crying shame that people who use some of these phrases can't be placed in front of a firing squad.

I'm picking on the term "African-American" because it's completely nonsensical tokenism. Think about it, we only apply this terminology to those we consider to be of African descent; we never give this hyphenated citizenship to people from any other continent. We don't have Asian-Americans, European-Americans, or Antarctican-Americans running around loose, do we? No. Do you know why? Because these useless labels, all of them, sound abso-fucking-lutely stupid.

This is because Africa is not a country in the first place, it's a continent that is in turn filled with countries. Get that through your misshapen little head, would you? Japanese-American I can understand. Those people who claim this kind of dual-citizenship actually head back to the land of the rising sun every once in a while to visit family. Those politically inept ghetto rats who might call themselves African-American have never been to a single country on that particular continent, and if they went, I'd wager that most of them would be dead in about half a day. It's a useless label designed to spread dissent by manufacturing barriers between people who ought to be getting along as countrymen. Other nations don't have this horseshit because their citizens won't tolerate it. If you were to refer to a person from Norway as a "European", he'd probably let you get away with it about once. Then he'd begin politely reminding you that he was, in fact, Norwegian. If you persisted, he'd likely drop all pretense of actually liking you and call you a 'Rjeindeer Fjucking Rjedneck".

But here's the really funny thing. Black people aren't the ones calling themselves "African-Americans" to begin with. Did you know that? They just don't, and that's anywhere in the world. Only hypersensitive Caucasian Americans use this mindless PC phrase; never black folks. Not even the U.S. Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice, and she's as political, and as black, as you're ever going to get. Black people in the United States simply call themselves black, and they understand that they are Americans first and foremost, with a magnificent winter tan.

I'd like somebody to tell me what's so wrong with the word "Black" in the first god damned place. Is it offensive? To whom? I've never met anyone that it personally bothered, and as far as I know, Crayola still includes a black crayon in every single box, suitable for ages three and up. According to the guilty white liberals, the apparent upper limit for this suitability is age six.

As of this writing, Crayola had no plans to phase out the politically incorrect "black" crayon and replace it with "African-American" hue. (I called their public relations lady, Stacy Gabriel, to check. Swear to God.) Also, the four major commercial printer manufacturers Hewlett-Packard, Lexmark, Canon, and Epson did not indicate that they were moving to "African-American" ink cartridges on their websites, either. In fact, everything I've researched indicates that there is no shame connected to the word "black" whatsoever.

However the term African-American offends me greatly. If you're African-American, then why don't you go live there in that *ahem* other country, Africa, for a while? You know, to visit relatives and friends and stuff. What's that? You don't have any friends or relatives in Africa? Are you sure?

Believe me when I tell you that your phenotype doesn't matter. You liberal assholes say that these economically and socially disadvantaged "African-Americans" require special programs to ensure equality. That's fine I guess, but don't tell me that you actually believe this bullshit, do you? If what you're telling me is right, if these people had equality, we wouldn't need these balancing programs anymore? Is that right? Okay. Boom. They're equal. It happened with the end of segregation with the Voting Rights Act of 1965, signed into law on August 6th, by President Lyndon B. Johnson. It's last amendment was adopted in 1982, which went into effect in 1985. They have the same right to vote, the same right to free speech, the same constitutional protections as every other human being in the United States, and have for the last twenty years... Why do you need the programs?

I'll fucking jolly well tell you why they need the programs. Because there's money to be made in prolonging this 'problem'. As long as black people as a whole can be convinced that they need special help to get anywhere in life by organizations such as the NAACP, the UNCF, and other conglomerations of ten-digit bank accounts and single-digit I.Q.'s, there's a reason for funding. If the problems were to go away, there wouldn't be any more money for the upper crust to live lavishly on while they played Mother Theresa in a three piece silk suit on Capitol Hill, and they'd have to make a new institution of discontent from scratch. That's too much like work, so they don't do it.

Here's a fun thought: What if I decided to become a citizen of Egypt, eh? That would make me an African-American, wouldn't it? I think it'd be great, because then I could make all you bleeding heart, guilt ridden, PC assholes take a shit in your hat.

Oh! Didja' see that! There goes your logic running off and looking for a place to fucking hide, doesn't it? Gee, it's so small and malnourished... I can't be African-American because I'm not black, you say? "HEY ALAN, ONLY BLACK PPL CNA B AFRICAN-AMERICIN! LOL!!!1Z", you prattle. Well what about my friend Selena from South Africa? She's clearly Caucasian, (and whiter than I am), but she's technically African-American because she immigrated to this country a few years ago and became a naturalized citizen, holds dual-citizenship, and runs a rather successful business. And then there's my buddy Abu who's here from Côte D'Ivoire in West Africa. He's six-foot-twelve, almost as dark as a tire, and his native language, Xhosa, has clicks in it. And believe me, if you call him an African-American, he'll be quick to point out that he's from Côte D'Ivoire, and is just here to study. He doesn't consider himself an African of any stripe any more than you racist, prejudiced pieces of shit refer to yourselves as European.

Oh my god, did I call you racist? You're fuckin'-A right I did. And don't forget the prejudiced part either you pointy-headed bastards. Any time you professional apologists see a black person, you automatically label them "African-American". And as you see from the opening definition of prejudice and racism, you're not only wrong, but you're bone-stupid, too.

But enough rambling about the problem, (i.e. YOU). Let's get to the solution! There are just two things you precious people need to do to make all this start resembling rational thought:

1: Shut the fuck up

That's the hard part. Just keep your teeth together for a while. Have you shut the fuck up yet? I know it's hard, but we'll work with you. New things are always difficult.

Are you quiet yet? Has your head stopped making noise? It has? Good for you! You get a gold star!

(Now people can finally get a god damned word in edgeways, you selfish prick.)

2: Wait

Now that you've shut the fuck up, you'll notice that your head is starting to fill with ideas. It's kinda scary isn't it? Don't worry. This is normal. It's called "thinking". You'll realize that all this stuff is getting us nowhere fast, and that if the current 'solutions' to these artificial problems really worked, they'd have done so thirty years ago. There is no problem. There is only the manufacturing of legions of malcontents by governmental and social institutions, under the guise of assistance, with a problem that wouldn't exist without the meddling of said institutions in the first fucking place.

I'd like to leave you with a couple of thoughts. I don't have to exaggerate to tell you that the phrase "African-American" is offensive to me because it is an insulting, exclusionary term. It separates black people from the rest of the country and it marks them linguistically and subconsciously as something different. Something foreign. Something alien.

All in all a thing that is not "us".

The other thing I wanted to mention was that, apparently, I am not allowed to take offense to this delineating label. I was recently told, flatly and bluntly by a white woman, that since I was white and that I was the only one who took offense to this term, obviously I was the one who had the problem. So in other words, things that offend me are of no consequence. Because I'm white. I'm not allowed to be offended you see; I'm the one who's supposed to feel guilty about giving offense to others.

Sorry Ethel. I'm not buying that bullshit, even if it is on sale. I think the ghosts of Rosa Parks and Charles Darwin will back me up on this: 295 million people really can be wrong.

You mark my words: in about twenty years, black people are going to be as bent out of shape about being called "African American" as they are over any other racial slur. You fucking watch. It's sad and it's true; the term "African American" is nothing more than the latest PC liberal way to say "nigger". We're all Americans god damn it.

About the test you took...

How many did you get right? Did you guess that all five were African-American? WRONG!
Did you think you were clever and notice that #3 had two people in it, so you guessed six? Well you're WRONG AGAIN!

As you can see, none of these people are American, much less from Africa. Wow. I don't think your little mind is ever going to recover.

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Thursday, July 27, 2006

A shallow, mindless schmuck who sits at a computer all day instead of going out and having real social interaction, the Dumbass needs the disinterested, artificially bubbly, completely unprofessional opinions of a third-grade dropout to get through their day. The Dumbass thrives upon the feeling of inferiority that arises from admitting their personality is so non-existant as to be pinned down completely with just ten multiple choice questions written by someone who they have never met a day in their life. Dumbasses are known to paste the new-agey mystical bullshit results on their "blog" so other losers like you can see them, and tend to take several of these worthless quizzes in one day. But that doesn't mean you can't be a good consumer or McDonald's cashier. Remember, You're a Dumbass!

HTML CODE - Copy and paste these results into your blog so everyone who doesn't already know that you're a certified fucktard can learn the truth!

Let's start killing these people, shall we? They've simply got to go, if only for the sake of my own sanity. These are the same folks that check their horoscopes every day and really believe them. They're also the ones who have those cheap-ass "dreamcatchers" all over their fucking house, and keep a large chunk of volcanic glass in their living rooms so they can tap into it's "Crystal Energy".

To be honest, these hopeless assholes really just need to be banned from using computers altogether, because their only real use to society is as a 98.6° space heater. If it only makes sense to you that a person you don't know and will never meet can accurately psychoanalyse you, technological advances beyond the Paleolithic will only serve to trip you up. What you need is a hobby. Like bleach tasting.

Why do people take these inane little quizzes in the first place? I honestly don't know. They're pointless, and what's more, nobody cares about the results. At the very least, I can assure you that I don't give two shits about the results. Online quizzes and questionairres are right up there with jigsaw puzzles and paint-by-number sets for shit that could disappear from the face of the Earth tomorrow and it wouldn't change a god damned thing either way.

And that's not all; There's actually an industry based on these mindless quizzes. Bullshit merchants like e-harmony, Trụe, and Tickle design tests to pander to the the three types of hopeless internet schmuck:

Type 1:

The Desperate Schmuck

This specimen of internet schmuck is the person who just can't seem to find a date because everyone they grew up around already knows what kind of loser they are, and members of the opposite sex may have even taken up a collection to get them patriated to a foreign country. Relying on the anonymity of the internet... sorry, giggling fit here... they hope that somewhere in the world there exists a similar loser of the opposite sex, likewise tired of masturbation as their only recourse, that is just glad to have a partner to fuck for a change.

Type 2:

The Criminally Horny Schmuck

The second type of Internet Schmuck is the Criminally Horny Schmuck, and is usually male. Drooling over pictures of voluptuous Photoshopped breasts bursting from their halter tops, the Criminally Horny Schmuck displays signs of dementia in believing that he could ever 'hook up' with such a female over the internet. While Criminally Horny Females have been rumored to exist in isolated geographic niches, none are known to be in captivity, although reports of sightings abound. In fact, many researchers in the field consider both the Criminally Horny Female and it's less lavishly plumed relative, the Horny Female, to be hoaxes on the order of Piltdown Man, as there is some contention as to whether either breed of female ever actually walked the earth.

Type 3:


The poster child for birth control, This third and final breed of Internet Schmuck is considered a nuisance by most every organism he comes in contact with. Thankfully, this number is a low one as they are intensely reclusive creatures. The White House Committee on Agriculture initiated a spay/neuter (C.H.O.P.S.), and modem confiscation (NOMO), programs for these types of Internet Schmuck in March of 2003, but both programs failed due to the failure of these specimens to actually ever leave their basements and go outside. The C.H.O.P.S. program ended in June of 2004, with the NOMO program losing funding just nine months later due to government cutbacks. That same year, Congress announced the defunct programs were to be replaced by a completely new initiative which granted free broadband access to all persons previously targeted by NOMO, as leading scientists discovered it was a fantastic way to keep annoying motherfuckers in the house.

If you took this test to learn something about yourself, here it is: if you've not bred, you must sterilize yourself immediately. This is vital to my well being, sanity, and the future security of the nation. I'll send you free plans for a microwave gun so you can start zapping yourself in the crotch right now if you just e-mail me and ask. However, if you have already passed your hideously defective, yet sadly resillient DNA along to a new generation, do the right thing: spay or neuter your unswallowed loads before they can give us yet another generation of mindless dumbasses who do nothing but sit in the dark and stare at a computer screen, and all to answer a battery of the most superficial, piffling, and inane questions imaginable just to find out which Harry Potter character a random, fellow, sweaty, cross-eyed basement dweller with a mullet thinks they are. By the way, stop fucking, because I know you'll be doing this in public next:

That's an example of a Monkeyshine, by the way.

We, the people of Earth, don't want your genes going any farther than they've already come.

Now's as good a time as any to let you know that you are not any of the people you only wish these quizzes could make you. Hell, I'd prefer that they made you a make-believe character too. That way I'd have absolutely no chance of ever meeting you, and being subject to your monumental stupidity. I swear people like you are the reason they make blood pressure medication.

Of course, there's nothing wrong with a little escapist fantasy and all that happy horse shit. But just look at the test you took to get to this page. It was mindless, vapid, and completely inane: just like every other online personality quiz.

Just like you.

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What Kind Of Shallow Co-Dependant Are You?

Question 1: Do you have a MySpace account?

Like, oh my god, I LIVE for MySpace!

Yes, I have an account, but I don't use it that much.

No, but I've been thinking about signing up for one.

Fuck MySpace.

Question 2: Do you have any friends outside of the ones on MySpace?

I don't understand the question. What do you mean?

MySpace is my only means of communication with this "outside" you speak of.

I have a friend.

I'm not twitchy. Again, fuck MySpace.

Question 3: Have you ever attended a convention of any kind?

I've bought tickets to the next 6 annual Star Wars conventions so I don't have to stand in line.

Anime is a way of life!

I want to but my boyfriend/girlfriend doesn't like it so we don't go.

I'm not a people person.

Question 4: Would you say that you are a compulsive test taker?

I love taking tests! You can learn so much about yourself!

I've taken a few of them.

I took one once, but lost interest mid way through.

I don't take tests.

Question 5: Have you ever seen a woman, (neither your mother nor yourself), naked?

Yes, I have.

No, I have not.

Do RealDolls count?

Hey, grandma was pretty hot.

Question 6: Are online quizzes fun and informative?

OHMIGOD this is SooooOoOOoo much fun!

I'm rather bored, actually.

Eat shit, fucker.

Sometimes... sometimes my diaper leaks.

Question 7: Do you enjoy letting others handle all the difficult decisions?

Oh that is SO totally me!

Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't.


Thinking too much gives you wrinkles.

Question 8: Would you say that tests such as this one accurately identify your personality?

Of course! If you can't trust tests, what can you trust?

There might be something to it, but I'm reserving judgement.

I'd say it depends on the test and the author's credentials as a test writer.

This is so completely full of shit.

Question 9: Do you hate your job, but work there anyway because you'd rather be stable than happy?

I love my job, even though it's really hard sometimes and I never seem to have a day off because I'm always called in. They need me.

My job's okay. I do what I have to do so the lights stay on for right now, but I'm going to get a better job soon.

Work sucks and they've got me by the balls.

Work? Pfft! Where's the fun in that? Stables are for horses.

Question 10: Chocolate?


It's not a substitute for the real thing.

It makes me break out.

Fat ass.

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Monday, July 24, 2006

Attack Of The 50 Foot Thoughts!

  • We say a lot of things that we pretend make sense. Take the high school and collegiate ranking system as an example. We have Freshmen, Sophomores, Juniors and Seniors, right? The word "Freshmen" I can understand. Ditto Senior, and even the term "Junior" has a kind of logic to it. But Sophomore? What the fuck is that? Who made this shit up? And what was he on?

  • And since we're on the subject, I find it curious that people with a college education still say things like "Incoming Freshmen" and "Graduating Seniors". You don't hear about any "Lingering Juniors" or "Semi-Sophomores" do you?

  • Why isn't long distance pissing an Olympic event?

  • It occurs to me that nobody gives two shits about any kind of technology until it can be utilized for entertainment.

  • I often wonder if anyone has ever concieved while jogging.

  • Once at a diner, I saw something on the menu called an "Open-Faced" sandwich. I don't really know how to tell them this, but sandwiches don't have faces. They're sandwiches. I couldn't eat something that was looking at me. Besides, if sandwiches did have faces, I bet they'd give you some really dirty looks as you were munching on them. Moreover, the concept of an open-face sounds like a pretty severe injury requiring medical intervention, not culinary arts. You wouldn't eat a "sucking chest wound" sandwich, would ya'?

  • I hate being nice.

  • You know who I'd like to meet? Two men named Junior Little Sr. and his son, Junior Little Jr.

  • Definitions!

    Lawsuit: (n) ·soot
    The clothing your attourney wears.

    Dismember: (v) dis·mem·bur
    a. To tear a person or thing limb from limb.
    b. To kick someone out of an organization.

    Remember: (n) re·mem·bur
    a. To put a person or thing back together which has been previously torn limb from limb.
    b. To renew one's membership in an organization.

    Ketchup: (n, v) kech·ep
    a. The greatest condiment known to man.
    b. A game one has to play when they've fallen behind.

    Catsup: (n) Kat·soop
    A liquid food prepared from feline and vegetable stock combined with various other ingredients and often containing solid pieces.

    Linux: (n) Lin·uks
    a. An open-source operating system that remains stable by not allowing any programs to run.
    b. Masturbatory material for geeks still living at home in their parent's basement.

  • Getting back to something I said earler, as far as I know, in no culture are animals butchered for the meat on their faces. Why is that? It seems like such a waste. We'll use skin, gonads, intestines, brains, muscles, bone, and bladders, but the face just doesn't get anywhere. The human face has something like 44 muscles in it, and taking comparative vertibrate anatomy into account, our slaughter animals should have a similar number. If you think of all the animals that are slaughtered every year, and then take an average of the surface area of their faces, that's literally square miles of potential food that we're just tossing aside. I'm sure you could get at least a sandwich out of it. If ya' cared enough. I tell you, this is the reason we can't compete in a global market anymore. Slipshod values. Remember, happiness is only grin deep.

  • Would you believe that cola doesn't even have any coal in it?

  • Have you ever been so mad at someone you wanted to see them run over, shot, stabbed, flayed, poisoned, drawn, quartered, beheaded, burned at the stake, pissed on, chopped into little bitty pieces, and then have the pieces arrested for indecent exposure? Yeah, me too.

  • I wonder how snails fuck?

  • Does pasteurized milk come from plain cows that have been given champain and allowed to have a field day?

  • They say Dracula can be killed by a stake through his heart. I say my wife can kill you with one of her steaks in your stomach.

  • If you called a gay man a cocksucker, would he be offended?

  • I'd like to have just a compass, a poncho, and a small tactical warhead. Because, hey, you never know.

  • One man's trash is another man's refuse.

  • On the internet, people used to have web pages, but now they're calling them "Weblogs", or "Blogs" for short. Trendy bastards. People are forever asking me to check out their blog, and they're all the same; meaning that they suck. Just because you're trendy doesn't mean you're interesting. Quite the opposite in fact. And who thought of that particular name anyway? Blog! Is it just me, or does "Blog" sound like the noise you make when you blow chunks? I find it amazing that something could suck and blow at the same time. And by extention, a blogspot would be... Well, hey, I ain't cleaning it up.

  • The next time someone asks you to turn on the television, go over and start making out with it and see how they respond. Refer to their TV as a 'filthy whore' while giving it condescending looks from then on for added effect.

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