All over the map

If you are either a.) compulsive, b.) weird, or c.) both (see "me") you might have noticed something new at the very bottom of this blog. There is a little map. It's a hit counter that tells me what part of the world you're in. For instance, I can see that I've had 3 different locations in Australia, of which only one can I account for. I'm known in two Scandanavian countries. And here and there around America. Welcome, weirdos!

Several points:

• Canada and Alaska: where you at? I will try to address your foolishness needs more effectively in the coming months, but I think you need to meet me halfway. So stop by, and just know that I am developing a bit about dried caribou meat that I think you might find interesting.
• Europe: What's up with you folks? I'm looking at just a couple of hits from Sweden and Finland, period. This leads me to believe that in order to "get" me, you have to be either severely depressed, an alcoholic, or a member of ABBA. And lord knows, I hope you're all three!
• Greenland: Does anybody live on you? And if so, are they so friggin' busy that they can't stop by? I don't know if you've been keeping up with your local news but if not, well, that's because there isn't any. You live in Greenland. Embrace how bored you must be and stop by. Ditto for any Antarctic science outpost dwellers. Take a short break from whacking off and/or battling space aliens who you have accidentally uncovered long buried in the ice and stop in, won't you?
• Africa: I know that for most of you, your life is a lot harder than mine probably. But there must be some sort of oppressor/overlord/warlord with a T1 connection somewhere out there. I certainly don't condone his/her behavior, but by god I will accept his/her attention. I'm trying to fill up the map here people. Help me out.

Now, I'm pretty aware that if these folks haven't stopped by they can't read my suggestion that they do so. And I'm also aware that if they ARE reading my suggestion to stop by, said suggestion ceased to apply to them in that moment. I'm well aware of the potential logic problems inherent in a post such as this. Do I care? Honestly, kind of. It bothers me a little. But it's nothing that eating another hundred Christmas cookies can't cure.

Open Letters re: the transit strike.

Dear People Walking in Front of me, Drifting Aimlessly to and fro on the narrow footpath on the Brooklyn Bridge,

 

Cut the shit. I'm trying to, you know, get someplace. Seriously. I'll knife you in your sleep.

 

Love,

 

-mac

 

************

Dear Brooklyn Borough President, Marty Markowitz,

 

Thank you so much for greeting all Brooklynites on the Brooklyn Bridge. My friend, Nicole, has a giant crush on you and I bet she wouldn't even mind the massive boogers you had all over your face. Hey, it was cold out there! Who wouldn't understand that? Keep up the good work, whatever it is that you do, Marty. We Brooklynites love the shit out of you.

 

-mac

 

*************

 

Dear Lady Whose Hat Had It's Own Beaded Dreadlocks Attached To It,

 

Wow. What an interesting choice. Somewhere between "member of the yaya sisterhood on vacation in Jamaica" and "Predator's head tubes". Keep that going. I needed that.

 

-mac

 

**********************

 

Dear Dog Poop The Color of Baby Aspirin,

 

Oh boy, what did your canine creator EAT, my friend? It can't have been healthy, is all I'm saying.

 

Concerned,

 

-mac

Things the Transit Strike has Taught Me

Ok, it's day two of me walking 90 minutes each way to and from work. I've learned a lot of things. Well, not many things. Hardly any things. But I find that if I start telling someone all the things I've learned, I'm generally more than able to BS my way through it. Here we go:

• 90 minutes is a long time. And it's even longer the second time that day.
• It's hard to feel bad for the transit workers when one of their complaints is about moving their pension from age 55 to 62. Yeah, uh, I don't get a pension when I'm a hundred and eleven. Cops get a pension because they get shot at. You drive a choo choo. Get back to work before I die of tired.
• When they tell you that the minimum operating temperature for an iPod is 32 degrees, they actually mean it. There is no Brooklyn Bridge exemption for that rule either. And I, for one, was disappointed. How am I supposed to be jaunty on my way to work when my tuneage cuts out right in the middle of the first act of HMS Pinafore? Uh...I mean...DMX. The first act of DMX Pinafore.
• If you haven't washed your tub in a long time (or, oh, let's say "ever") you can absolutely still take a bath. If you're tired and footsore enough, you won't mind the water's hue in the least.

Holiday Crap

I'm not even being metaphorical. I would like to talk about dung and/or manure around the Christian holy days. I hadn't intended to, but as soon as I wrote that subject heading, it's all I could think about. And it occurs to me that I NEVER get to talk about that stuff. Almost never. It just doesn't come up. I blame the people with whom I converse. What, you people can't bring it up even once? Like:

 

"Hey, where are you spending Christmas? Will you be near any poo?"

 

Or:

 

"Boy, I hope my grandmother doesn't make that pecan pie like she did last year. it was delicious, but it was just too heavy. And also, what are your thoughts on manure during this yuletide?"

 

I don't think it's too much to ask, folks. It's called common courtesy. Look it up.

No Secret Santa

So I just declined to enter the office Secret Santa...I was going to say "competition," but that can't be right. Unless it's a competition for the most awkward and uncomfortable exchange of gifts, in which case I think it totally wins.

 

Look, if something's going to be secret, shouldn't it also be shameful. I know, I know, Secret Santa IS shameful. But it's not trying to be so I don't think it counts. In my homeland of Connecticut we know shame like douchebags know wine vintages (sorry, fans of "Sideways" but if you met that guy in real life you'd get real bored, real fast.)

 

The point is this: If they had an office...again, not competition but...activity? Timewaster? If they had an office whatever called Shameful Santa, I'd join immediately. In a way, I'm already enrolled in that one. Shame is a gift that I give myself. I give it each and every day.

 

I will say that I am THRILLED to have turned down Secret Santa for the first time. At another point in my life I would have just signed up and spent the next week and a half dreading the dual terrors of giving something stupid to a stranger AND pretending to LIKE something stupid received from a stranger. But this year I am just looking forward to hearing whispers of "Here comes Mr. Anti-social" as I walk past the watercooler.

 

I'm just kidding -- I almost never walk PAST the watercooler. Most of my day is spent walking TO or FROM it to pass the time, or to the bathroom to take all of the watercooler water and release it back into the wild. Good bye, pee (nee' watercooler water.) I'll catch you later.

 

I'm losing it, people.

Ooops...

At my job yesterday, I accidentally cared. It was just for a short while but it was pretty unnerving nonetheless. Especially for someone such as myself who, you know, doesn't. Care, that is. I doesn't.

 

But I also don't want to look like an idiot. Even if I am one, I don't want to LOOK like one. (That's the Connecticut way. It's on our license plates.) And I sensed that I was about to look like a real moron. And so I - accidentally I'm saying - cared for a second. I was upset by the fact that this thing that I don't really understand wasn't working the way that I half thought it sort of should have been working. I'm not sure what it did, or what I did TO it.

 

This is my job. I do things that I don't understand to computer programs that I don't understand. And they pay me and give me sandwiches once in awhile. It works, ok?

 

I got over the caring. And I did it by going home and watching Sigourney Weaver slaughter aliens in her cryptically titled film, Aliens. I bet those Aliens care about their job. Fucking shit up and bleeding acid. That's their job. And they do it with aplomb. I rarely do things with aplomb, but I have aplombish aspirations. And I mean well.

 

Good night, ladies. Oh, and come see me at the Comedy BBQ tonight (details at the left.) Should be a fun one.

Important Meeting!

So I had to go to an informal lunch thing with the CEO of the company I'm working for. The idea was that he would explain where the company is headed to peons such as myself who are only there because someone made us go. But there were sandwiches. The sandwiches held me while I wept.

 

As he spoke about fiscal this and diversify that (to a roomful of people who just, you know, WORK here) and used 140 acronyms for things I didn't know about even had he used their unabridged names, all I could hear was, "The market has been really SANDWICH for the last few fiscal SANDWICHES. And I feel like our only route, especially with the SANDWICH server and the SANDWICH at SANDWICH hospital, we have to look to the POTATO CHIPS or we're going to have to FREE SODA," etc.

 

My greatest fears from kindergarten came back to me immediately. I was terrified that at some point he would say, "Jeff, what do you think about all of this?" Because the answer is 'sandwich.' I think sandwich.

So Close...

Last night, for the first time, I finished a novel written entirely in French. I was so pleased. But as it turns out it was in fact written entirely in French dressing.

 

It was still pretty cool I guess.

Congratulations, America!

Well, last week we celebrated our 1,000th execution! Well, of the "modern era." Wait, what does that mean? Oh, that's the past 3 years. Wow. They've been killing folks at almost exactly the rate and frequency at which I touch myself in an impure manner. I can't help but to feel that there must be a correlation. I hope I'm not responsible for the whole thing. That would be so embarrassing. More embarrassing than talking about whacking off on a public internet site with my picture on there and everything? Sure.

 

FYI - The thousandth guy was a murderer who had killed his estranged wife. And not for nothing, but I think maybe once you murder sombody you should probably get upgraded from "estranged". Seems a little dainty for that level of intimacy.

 

I wonder if the guards threw him a little party for being their 1000th customer? The least they could have done would be to have confetti pop out when they threw the switch. You know, something festive to celebrate the occasion.

Happy Thwart Jeff Mac Day!

I hope you are all having a lot of fun at my expense today, you bastards. Slowing down my train. Sending microwaves into my brain to make me almost go to work without my tie on. Walking in front of me so slowly that surely you must be getting some sort of cash for annoying me. How do they reimburse you for that? Is it by the voltage generated in my brain as you waddle up the subway steps holding BOTH handrails? Do you get a check, or do you get a voucher that you can use at the Thwart Jeff Mac store where you can buy car alarms, puffy coats that I can't navigate around, and cellphones that require you to scream in order to be heard?

 

I need a nap. One that lasts until I'm accidentally rich and never have to leave my home again. I love my home. And the second I'm rich, I'm totally going to become a reclusive mad scientist. Well, maybe not a scientist. I know all about how you have to have some background in "science" or "the sciences" to get that kind of a gig. But I'll go mad, though. I'll tell you that much. And I'll be wicked reclusive. Oh, it's gonna be so awesome.

 

"Wicked" and "Awesome" together again. I can hardly wait.

It has come to my attention...

...that some of you have not been reading very carefully. While I appreciate that you are reading at ALL, I stated very clearly in the post below that said post would, in fact, NOT be rife. Not with anything at all. I had hoped it would be rife. I strive for rifeness. I once received a merit badge for rifery. Well, it was more like a sandwich. And I received it only after, you know, ordering a sandwich. Impressive? No. Rife? Not even close. Sexy? In it's way.

 

My point is this, I don't want to hear any of you bastards complain about my lack of rifitude when I clearly already explained that it wasn't there. Especially when said dearth of rifosity was due (as it was in this case) entirely to my own laziness. Don't you think I'm ashamed enough without you pointing out the truth?

 

Brusquely,

 

-the management

 

p.s. I'm sorry, audience. I didn't mean it, baby. It's only because I love you. I promise I  will never hit you that hard again.

Notes from the bunker...

I'm writing this secretly from work. Or maybe I'm writing it from work, secretly. I leave the grammar and usage concerns to you, the public. I've got no time. Either way, it's a secret. And I'm not telling. Not anyone. Not even you, me bloggees.

 

Actually, this is a bit of a test. I'm testing out the process of e-mailing this directly to the blog. Normally a post such as this would be rife with hilarity, but this one is just a test. Rife, I says. Rife as holy hell. It really would be. Rife, I'm saying. I always wanted to have something of mine be rife with something else. I guess I'll have to settle for typing the word "rife" enough times that it loses all meaning. Rife. Yeah, I'm in no way convinced that's a word anymore.

 

Rifely Yours,

 

-the management

One o' these days...

I'm gonna figure out how to blog more regularly. Or less regularly, but with more regularity. I'm not all that grammatical. But I knows what I likes. With me, good grammar is like porn was to that horny old senator who said that he didn't know how to define it, but he knew it when he saw it. And some people probably masturbate to good grammar as well. Or to bad grammar.

"Oh yeah, baby. End that sentence with a preposition! Dangle that participle! Dangle it, you whore!"

I'm sure that happens all the time. Why wouldn't it? In New York City, if you can think of something disgusting that someone might do to someone, there's probably a whole section for that right on craigslist.com.

I thank you and good night.

Thankful

I like to tell strangers what I'm thankful for on days like these*. Terrible grammar in that sentence notwithstanding, I've decided that YOU are the proper strangers to tell. There are no other strangers in my vicinity. Not that you wouldn't be my first choice anyway, dear readers. Which brings me to the first thing for which I, Jeff Mac, am thankful.

• You, the common bored person. Thank you for reading this blog. I really do love that you all are out there, reading this nonsense. I am confident that you DO read this, and that's why I know I can thank you for doing so. If you didn't read this blog, you wouldn't be reading this blog today. Check and mate.
• Turkeys. You guys are wicked delicious. I know that can't be awesome for you, but that doesn't really change the fact that I used the words "wicked" and "awesome" in my thankblurb re: you. If I could only find some way to work in "choice" and "decent" I would account for about 40% of my teenage vocabulary. Which, if you think about it, is totally gross. Seriously, turkeys, thanks so much. Special shout out to the specific one I ate today. That guy was real good.
• The Empire Strikes Back DVD. Thank you for being owned by me so that I can now watch you as the perfect Thanksgiving day movie to watch.
• The Fabric of Space and Time: I am especially thankful for you today, universal law. If you weren't as you are, my Mom might have been in town, expecting me to take her to the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. That would have made me poke my eyeballs out with a stick. Some people have told me that I should take my Mom to the parade because after she's gone I'll feel badly that I didn't take her. That might be the case, but I think that my sorrow that I never brought her to the parade will be in some small way alleviated by the fact that I never had to GO to it. It's all about the give and take, people.
• Friday Off From Work: Even though I am not getting paid for working during you, Friday, I surely do appreciate that you aren't making me go for a hard day of work at the building with the ties.
• Again, You. Thanks for reading all the way through to the end. Even if you just read the boldface bulletpoints and skipped down to this, I'm confident that you will go back and read the rest when you have time. And in all fairness, even I didn't read the whole thing**.

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody! And to all of you who live in the terrorist nation of "not America," uh...hi there! I hope you are enjoying...Thursday.

*i.e. days like holidays designed specifically for being thankful. And for murdering injuns. Either or.
**I learned to write as a child, but I never learned to read.

Google Search: "Spanked to Tears"

As is my wont, I was checking the web stats on this site to see where people have been clicking from. Someone got here because they were looking for the phrase “spanked to tears.”

 

Two things. Firstly, even though I know you didn’t find what you were looking for here…well, to tell you the truth I have no idea what you were looking for so I can’t really say that. All I can say is that I don’t really understand how this nonsense website could possibly have helped you. Not in the way that, say, a prescription for Thorazine might have at least. For that, I apologize.

 

And secondly, I was only spanked to tears once in my adult life. I don’t feel that I deserved it, either. That was what really hurt. That and the really, really hard spanking. Luckily, it happened onstage for all to see. Because if I’m going to tear up as a result of receiving a child’s punishment, I’d like to at least get the laugh.

 

I feel dirty.

 

Sincerely,

 

The Management

Hosting that crazy show AGAIN! TONIGHT!!!!

Ok, last week I told you guys about a show I was hosting where there are people from all over the world in crazy numbers? Well as it turns out, last week's permutation was 2 people from California, 4 women from Ireland, 3 ancient Scottish soccer players who used to be famous, and 14 people of Afghani descent who were from all over the world. Seriously. And those Afghanis had some serious fun. I guess when you come from Afghanistan, pretty much anything besides exploding is fun.

Anyway, I'm hosting that one again tonight (info in my calendar on the right). Couple of great comics on the show. Jesse Joyce, Rick Younger, Blaine Perry. Come on down and see the inspiration for the cantina scene in Star Wars!

Come on down tonight!

Hey all. Sorry for the slightly irregular blogularity, but my new job does not grant me internet access. Apparently I don't "need" it for my "work". Well, I'll figure something out.

In the meantime, why not come get your fix at SWEET tonight. It's at 8:30 at Ace of Clubs, which is at the corner of Lafayette & Great Jones. I think it's Tom Shillue, Jess Wood, and Michael Showalter, with Seth Herzog hosting. Only $5 for all of that. Come by, won't you?

Darryl Hall Lyme Disease 2005

Ok, I have gotten more than a few Google hits from people using that title as the search criteria. Like, kind of a lot of them. I thought I should give these seekers some information -- you know, just a little something for stopping by. Now, I haven't really done any research. And I don't think that it is funny that Darryl Hall has lyme disease (if he does, which I think he does, and Darryl -- seriously -- sorry.) But I do think that people who would say that it's not funny ARE funny. So here we go.

• First of all, there is NO truth to the rumor that Darryl contracted Lyme disease from unprotected sex with a deer tick. None whatsoever. He has filed and won several lawsuits to that effect.
• Also, there is ZERO truth to the rumor that the tick - from which Darryl did NOT contract Lyme disease - was, for a time, seen around town with the gerbil that has NOTHING to do with Richard Gere. None of that is either true or untrue. Get over it. Both of them died eating pop rocks and drinking Coke. Plus, they don't even exist, so that's the end of it.
• The real truth is that he in fact contracted the disease by receiving a tick transfusion to counteract a congenital deficiency he has. A deficiency of tick...juice. It's medical, ok? You look it up.

Seriously, though. I love Hall & Oates, and lyme disease blows, and I hope he's ok. We're pulling for you, Darryl. Our private eyes (pow) are watching you (pow pow).

Whew!

Ok, I figured out the problem from the last post. Apparently a certain blog doesn't like it when you have 35 exclamation points in a title. Well, we're all back to normal now. And please, feel free to come on out and see some comedy. Don't leave me alone with the Norwegians. I'm feeling very vulnerable right now, and their stoic nordicism will shatter me like an ice sculpture of King Olaf. Of Sweden. Check and mate, my friends.

What the Fudge is Going on Around Here?

I was minding my own business, reading my own blog to check and see if I was still adorable (p.s. that's a big 10-4). And what did I see? The sidebar -- including my wonderful calendar -- is WAY down at the bottom of the screen. Why is this happening to me? Why, God? Is it because of the multivitamin? I haven't stolen any office supplies from my new office job yet. But I'll start. I swear I'll start. Just please, please put my lovely standup calendar back up where it belongs, and I promise I'll pretend to start believing in you. Amen.

And if you're looking for a reason WHY I want that sheeyot up here with you, the viewer, it's because I'm doing a couple of really fun shows this weekend. I'm hosting a show on Saturday night that makes me so afraid, I can't begin to describe it. You never know who is going to show up. Could be a great crowd. Could also be a table of 3 Norwegians sitting across from a family of Klanspeople from the Ozark mountains. You should all come on down and have fun with me.

The Day Job: Day One Post Mortem

Ok, first of all, as I was getting dressed this morning, I looked good with the dress pants and the tie. I mean really good. And it wasn't just about sexual attraction to myself (although I totally wanted me.) But I also hearted me.

When I got there, I was brought to my office, which is only temporary until they can find me a place in the maze of cubicles, or "pubicles" as I like to think of them. In "my" office, I put my feet up on the desk. Just for a second, but I wanted to have that feeling once in my life. Wasn't that great, I have to be honest with you. Not that fun.

It has been a long, long time since I was in an office environment. I was like Tarzan being brought back to civilization after those long years when he was a consultant in the jungle. He never really intended to end up in the jungle in the first place. After acting school, he just came here and...well, it's a long story.

I spent part of the day imagining that I was Clark Kent on a really slow villain day, so I had to pretend to be working. I also imagined that I was in an alien prison that was constructed from the innards of my mind to look, feel, smell, sound exactly like a real office. But it's really all a trap. I spent some of that time thinking things like, "My God, it's just like any office back on Earth. You'll never break me! Do you hear me, you seven headed freaks!! NEVER!!!"

I am gonna go absolutely apeballs in this job.

Marathon Man

Yes, ladies and gentlemen. The New York City Marathon was yesterday. And I, your humble host, watched it. No, no. No congratulations are necessary. I didn't do it for the praise or recognition.

I would love to run a marathon. And by that, let me just say that no, no, in fact I would not at all love that. I would hate it like I hate getting fire pushed into my underpants by angry toddlers. It happens, people.) What I WOULD like would be for people to cheer for me and shout my name and say, "Good job!" like they do at the marathon, while I was doing something easier than that.

I think I could do a marathon if I didn't have to do it all at once. And I didn't have to run it. And I could just do it in little pieces, like between my bed and my bathroom. At work, between the desk and the bathroom. Basically if I could count my trips to the bathroom towards a marathon, and I get there when I get there, I'm totally in. In fact, I feel very confident that I could start the race tomorrow, and I would never get tired of it. Actually, I know myself a little better than that. How long would it be before I had talked myself into peeing my pants at the desk to avoid training?

The point is this: our bodies were not meant to run that far, and by that I mean that MY body is not INTERESTED in doing so. My brain is. I want to be a badass. Who doesn't? We all want to be a fucking warrior who just motors through this thing. But most people don't get there. Why is that? Because, and I want to be clear about this, it's hard. Like, physically. I've tried to train for a marathon twice. First I hurt my knee, then I pooped myself a little. (I'd recommend the first, if you have the opportunity to make that choice. Word to the wise: choose your sports drink carefully.)

If I was going to run a marathon, I'd want it to be highly publicized. And since I'm not very fast or old or infirm or anything newsworthy like that, I'd probably have to spontaneously combust during the race. And I'm willing to do it. In fact, if I knew I was going to die, and I could pick, "Bursting into flames as I cross the finish line at the NYC marathon" you know I would do it. I'd do it for you, people. Actually, I DO know I'm going to die. Someday, I'm sure of it. I'm almost positive that I read that somewhere. Hm. Well, I guess I'll have to wait until next year, but it sounds like FUN, doesn't it? Sure it does!

Kaboom!

It Worked.

I start my new job on Monday. Apparently, all of my shenanigans worked perfectly. But then, shenanigans often do.

Now I have to decide how to be secretly subversive on a regular basis while I'm there. I don't think it should all be about my naughty parts as I feel that I've mined that territory a bit already. (Although, I am slightly interested in having a weekly feature on the blog called, "What's-in-my-ass Wednesdays.")

I'm thinking that my riskless risks could take any number of forms. Maybe it could be to say a slightly strange word or phrase to every single person in the office over the course of the day. Like, "Howdy, pardner" or "Cry me a river." Or to take one person in the office and treat them as if they are a serial killer, and get really, really terrified every time they walk by or talk to me. You know, pick the sweetest, most quiet person in the office and shake uncontrollably whenever I speak with them.

Then again, this job is only on a provisional basis until the end of the year. Only after that will they decide to hire me for real. So I'll leave the really weird stuff until I'm more ensconced. For now...

God, I wish I had a superhero unitard that I could wear like Spiderman or Superman did. Just under the clothes so, you know, in case the shit goes down I'm ready. But I would think that they would get really, really overheated in that stuff. So many layers! Ah well, I guess that's the cross they have to bear. That and getting punched by villains. Couple of crosses.

No Word Yet

I haven't heard anything yet from the job interviewer-type people (see below). I really hope I did the right thing by putting a vitamin up my ass. I know, I know, everyone hopes that. But it's not just a cliche for me this time. I really mean it.

I've read things that indicate you can get too much of certain vitamins. I might not have even read that -- I might have just half heard it and IMAGINED that I read it. Which is way worse. Maybe I got too much B12 and gave myself a goiter. Or a thyroid. Those can kill. Or at least hurt your feelings. No, like, bad.

The only moment in the interview when I may have choked was when he asked if the job sounded like it was something that I would be interested in. And I know I blinked. I had not prepared to feign interest while I was talking. Had we been playing poker, that would have been a class A "tell." The elk-in-the-headlights* look must have said, "Oh god, I've never been interested in ANY job, sir. I just need money for food."

I don't know if I'm even going to take this job. Like those magnificent bastards over at Cheap Trick, I just want them to want me.


*I don't like that it's always deer. So passe. I bet there are plenty of other dumb animals that watch with interest as you crash into them.

In-person Interview, With a Little Something Extra...

First of all, I would like to thank all of you who put suggestions for me in the comments or e-mailed them to me. I loved all of them. The one that I chose, however, was from Caila who wrote:

"Jeff, put a couple jellybeans in your buttcrack. or just right into your butt."

This idea was just the kind of thing I was looking for. Something that would be completely unnoticeable to my interviewers, but that would most certainly lose me the job if they knew. I was basically looking for something where I could use the phrase "none the wiser."

Well, the sad part is that I forgot to buy jellybeans and I woke up too late this morning to go and get them. So instead, I went to my corporate-ish job interview looking quite professional, wearing my dark olive shirt with a deep red tie, dress pants and my one pair of church shoes*.

Oh, and a Walgreen's brand multivitamin up my ass.

I think I may have gotten the job.

I chose a multivitamin because I figured that it couldn't harm me (although the bottle does recommend taking it with a full glass of water, which I just didn't have time to engineer in this situation.) And on the plus side, who knows? Maybe during the interview I would receive a jolt of vitamin C**!

It wasn't noticeable (to me, I mean -- I'm SURE it wasn't noticeable to them) but every once in a while I would remember it was there and suddenly whatever he was telling me about Medicaid reporting issues would become very, very amusing.

I like to believe that they were thinking, "Boy, what a happy guy. He really seems to like computer programming. It seems that he is so interested in our company, he could just laugh!"

This was all for you, my bloggees. I struck a blow for silliness in the face of big business (and possibly colon health) at the same time in your name. You're welcome.

*I don't go to church or anything, but that's my point of reference for dressy, uncomfortable shoes.
**Couldn't tell if this happened to me or not.

Second Interview Contest!!!

Well, apparently the pantsless interview technique has born fruit - I have been asked to come in for a face-to-face followup. After years of consulting from home I'm already annoyed with the prospect of having to wear a tie and be punctual, even just that one time. The prospect of actually being paid regularly, less annoying.

Incidentally, several people have asked me whether or not I really did my telephone interview naked from the waist down, as if it is some kind of a risk that I dare not take. It was OVER THE PHONE. People, people. I live alone. I can be naked from the waist down any time I choose. I'm not now, but I could be. Wait, hold on. There. Now I am. Does everyone feel better? No? Me neither. It's a little chilly in here.

Now, since my unorthodox interview practice seems to have been effective, I'm trying to decide how I can get the same effect in person without the hassle of being arrested for public pantslessness. I do have a pair of Jar-Jar Binks underwear* that I could wear. Seems pretty tame, though. Maybe I could write, "I hate working" on my chest underneath my shirt. They'd never read it, but it would make me feel better to express that in some small way.

THE CONTEST: If you all have any suggestions of what I should do for this second interview, feel free to leave me a comment about it. Any and all strange behavior/dress will be considered. I seriously do want to do something that will amuse me, but not jeopardize the job. I'm taking requests, people. Get creative. I promise to let you all know who the winner is.

*Serious as a heart attack on that one. When you like Star Wars as a child, sometimes your aunt can't let it go, even several decades later.

Jeff Mac Explains the Universe to You

Why, hello! I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting anyone, but I'm sure glad you stopped by. I've got a tale that will turn you as white as a Jeff Mac. It's about a little something called...the World. Come on along, won't you? No? Seriously? Oh, you were just screwing with me, huh? Right, right. Yeah, no, that was hilarious. Very...amusing. Ahem. Let's move on, shall we?

• The Big Bang: First, the universe was very, very small. Then it blew up. And now it's really, really expensive to live in. And lots of times it really sucks. Although, every once in awhile you have the kind of a day that...yeah, but mostly it pretty well sucks.
• Evolution vs. Intelligent Design: This is a very popular debate right now amongst politicians, rubes, and exasperated scientists who have actually been looking into the whole thing for quite some time. Here it is in a nutshell. The evolutionists believe that life occurred somewhat randomly at the start and then gradually, through the process of "natural selection"...Ok, here's the real deal. The evolutionists went to school, the other guys are big, big dummies whose only qualifications are that they have really great imaginations. I report, you decide.
• The Pyramids of Egypt: Are these things still interesting to people? Yeah, they were really, really big. I get it. Everyone, seriously, get over it. When you've got a bazillion slaves rolling giant blocks around all day long until they drop dead, you'd be surprised at the stuff you can get done. (Homework: try this yourself at home!)
• The Grand Canyon: Churchy types believe that this was created in a couple of minutes during the great flood in which two of every single animal on earth was on a boat. Scientists believe it's a big hole. Winner: big hole.
• The Collective Unconscious: This was an idea created by famous shrink, Carl Jung. It's been quite some time since I've read it, but it's essentially that we're all connected to some kind of an indoor, olympic sized pool of intelligence. Sounds hilarious. I'm totally in.

Now, I have not claimed to be an expert in any of these fields. Until right now. I am an expert in any of these fields. Good night.

I'll try anything once!

Anyone who says that they will "try anything once" is clearly not very imaginative. I'm willing to bet that any one of us could instantly come up with 5 things that they'd never, ever bother trying for every one that they would. Some examples.

• Pass a bicycle through your nose. Yes, the whole thing. Sure, you can take it apart. What, don't you want to try it even once?
• Color in every area of your exposed skin with a black sharpie.
• Shave your pubes into a sort of a hitler moustache and run down the street naked in Israel.
• Try a role-playing sex game where one partner pretends to be someone winning the Nobel Peace Prize while the other one pretends to be a klan member demonstrating at the ceremony. Full costumes, podium, burning cross are all mandatory.
• Build a home out of hotdogs. Live there, just for a month. Don't even want to try it one time? Just once? But you'll try ANYthing once!

America's Next Bottom-tier Model

This weekend, I entered and won a mock beauty pageant. It felt so good to be rewarded for all of my mock beauty and to be named the current reigning, "Mr. Lower East Side." What does that mean to you, the small child viewing at home in your footie pajamas? Well, it could add a little gravitas to the proceedings around here.

For example, if your boss catches you reading this at work and says, "Why are you reading this douchebag's blog instead of working?" you might want to try this out.

"Uh, hello? That douchebag just happens to be Mr. Lower East Side 2005-2006. You might want to check your tone, you colossal a-hole. Get back in your office before I smack your little bottom for you. Would you like that? You'd love that, wouldn't you? If I just spanked you mercilessly in front of all of your employees until you wept gentle tears? Well just maintain that stupid look on your face, daddio*, and your dreams will all come true."

And when you are then fired for insubordination/moral turpitude (a la Kim Catrall's character in Porky's, in the days of yore) we can go and get a cup of coffee and you will feel so relieved that you are no longer working for a buttpipe like that guy. Or lady. That's called "gender diversity" people. Look it up. It's very big with the kids today.


*Throw this term from the beatnik 50's in there for spice. If your boss is female, you can try Mommio, but it is highly unorthodox. Or at least midly unorthodox.

Full (frontal) disclosure

Ok, it was a little bit too cold for total nudity so I just went bottomless on my telephone interview. I feel like that made my point sufficiently and I think the interview went quite well.

If you have the opportunity to do a bottom-half nudity interview, I can honestly say that I would recommend it. It's not unlike the old "imagine them in their underwear" cure for nerves. That one never worked for me. But if I get a second interview (which will be in person) or if I get and take the job, I can assure you that I will be imagining myself without pants. Just like I imagine all of you, my lovelies.

Job interview just minutes away

Since my job interview will take place over the phone, I have decided to do it naked. Why? For you, the blogreading audience at home. So, while I am discussing the differences between SQL Server 2000 and Microsoft Access data structure, attempting to get someone to give me money on a regular basis, I'll be entirely in the buff. I feel that it will give me a sense of freedom that will give me that competitive edge.

Plus, it's a little chilly in here for total nudity, so I imagine it will boost my energy level somewhat.

This is all very experimental for me, so I promise to report back on my findings.

Interview Technique

I have a job interview tomorrow. And this time, I'm going to be completely honest. No more of this bullcrap where you say "what they want to hear" or "what will not get you tossed out." So here are all the questions I usually dread, and my new answers.

• So, why would you like to work for us: Oh I'm almost sure I won't LIKE it at all. I guess the main reason is that it's the only way you'll send paychecks. I mean, am I wrong about that? Seems like that's how it works these days.
• Tell me about you: Do you mean physically? Like, my dimensions...down there? Because if so, that sounds like sexual harrassment, and I'd like to sue rather than actually have to come to work for the money. That was so easy - thank you!
• Where do you see yourself in 5 years: Oh, there's no WAY I'll still be alive in 5 years. No, I would NOT like to elaborate, sir. Oh, sorry. Madam.
• What would you say is your greatest weakness: Mm. There are so many to choose from. And they are all great in their own way. I just hate to judge them like this. Hm...Let's see...'terminal adorability?' I'll go with that one.
• Do you have any questions for me: Nope. Oh wait. Who will I be speaking with on Mondays & Fridays when I'm calling in "sick"? Is that you? It's really nice to meet you.

HA!!!!!!!!!

I have you now, you shitstain spam-commenters!

Dear Gentle readers who read the comments on my blog (yes, you two.) You might have noticed all the total SHITE that shows up like:

Say, I was just looking around. I am for liking your blog. I am return often! Please to check out MY website about x-rated dishwashing detergent.

Well, I finally figured out how to defeat the bastards. From now on, if you would like to comment on the blog (and if you are a human and not a computer program, you are encouraged to do so as often as you like!) you'll have to do that thing where they have 5 or 6 wavy, trippy letters. And you'll have to type them in. Enjoy!

-mac

Rome: The Series: The Observations

Well, I've been watching Rome. Why? Because 6 Feet Under is over. And I have so little in life. Don't bother me. I just watch it, ok. Several things to note about HBO's new Emmyhole:

• Lots of sex between people who actively dislike one another. Huge pastime in ancient Rome. You'd find someone who you couldn't stand, you'd make sure they couldn't stand you, and you'd bang like the wind while your servants stood around. Just like today.
• Many Penises. Uh, holy shit. Ease back on the penis throttle, there, producers. Your cock-to-episode ratio is a little high. Even last night, I thought we had made it through an entire 60 minutes completely dong free. And then, in the last 30 seconds, what do I see? Baby wiener. Full frontal infant.
• Everyone on the planet is British. Romans, Egyptians, whoever. Well, there was one Greek guy with no nose who had a Greek accent. But other than that, it's Brits as far as the eye can see, dicks in the wind.

Why am I watching this show? Because I took Latin in high school, ok? Ladies?

Dear Autumn,

I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry I shouted at you last week. I'm sorry I called you the b word. Now please stop being incredibly rainy and depressing for everyone in the tristate area.

Come on, baby, why you rainin'? Shhhhh, shh, shhhhhhh. No, no, no. Stop raining, baby. Let's get you out of that uncomfortable green foliage. Ok, ok. We'll take it slowly. That's cool, baby. You drop those leaves at your own pace, Autumn.

Seriously. Please stop the raining. I've forgotten what the sun looks like. And yet I seem to remember enjoying it. And I think if I saw it now, I might pee a little. Not a bad thing. Like tears of joy. Pee tears of joy. Look, don't worry about the specifics. Just get it done.

Love,

The Sad, Seasonally Affected Guy in Apartment C1

Career Wanted:

Me: Unmotivated person looking for paycheck.
You: Anyone who isn't too fussy about what you'll get in return for the writing of that check.

Basically, I'm looking for a very low level of commitment in exchange for a lot of money. I mean, a big, huge pile of it. You don't have to actually put it into a pile, but piling is a plus. And I'm really not looking to do ANYTHING for it. The ideal situation would be if for some reason you place a high dollar value on my inactivity.

If just knowing that I'm probably somewhere sitting around not doing much of anything is worth cash to you for some reason, I think we may have a match.

Oh, and if you wanted to do something that in NO way inconveniences me, but for which I am legally within my rights to sue the living holy hell out of you, that would be fine as well. I'm easy. I'm easy like Sunday morning.

Dear New Laundromat,

How are you? I am just fine. Couple of quick things:

1. Your swipecard-based payment system frightens me, and yet leaves me secretly thrilled that I get a glimpse at the future of laundry. You make me feel like a real Jetson, and for that I will always love you.
2. This is less a comment than an observation. I really like the plasticy picnic tables. It's like McDonaldland without the burden of french fries or fun.
3. Please smother that swarm of children who circle me, wherever I go. But before you end their adorable lives, please ask them how they know. How do they know? How can they tell how badly I am wishing that they would give me at least a 5 foot no-child perimeter? And once they determine my no-child-please-zone, who trained them to coordinate their child-in-laundry-cart assault for maximum disturbance of my inner peace? I'm trying to be wicked enlightened over here, and it's very difficult when my brain is generating elaborate visions of each of them crying.

Sincerely,

That guy who moved away from the childcluster about eleven times before realizing that they were following me.

Dear Autumn,

What the fuck, season? It was supposed to be getting cooler by today. We're halfway to friggin Halloween over here. I'm simmering squash soup as we speak, yo. It's hot as balls in here!

I think I speak for all of New York City when I say get out of my mufuggin' dreams and into my car*, beyotch.

Listen, I only really like clothes you can wear in cool weather, ok? Basically anything they mighta wore in Aliens3. I'm talking drab and utilitarian, made for comfort and warmth, and fighting off aliens and/or space prison inmates. I can't wear that shit now though, can I? No. I have to wear everything I own in case it gets cold or warm or whatever the fudgicle you're going to throw at me. I'm sick and tired of this shit.

Get it together, Fall. You're embarrassing yourself.

-mac

*I caught myself singing that song on the street. Out loud. Yeah, uh, don't ever do that. Billy Ocean doesn't garner nearly the street cred you might imagine. Neither does being a pale-ass Connecticutian, fyi.

Farewell, old friend.

I retired my wallet today. I could give you any number of reasons why I did so, but let's go with the fact that there was no part of it that was attached to any other part of it any longer. It looked like something you might pull out of Tom Hanks's pocket in that movie where he hangs out with the volleyball.

As to why it fell apart? I think the reason is clear. It died of loneliness. It missed its lifelong soulmate with whom it was born to be: money. My old wallet died of a broken heart.

As I tossed its lifeless form into the trash, I could swear I heard a tiny voice say, "Tell money I always loved it." Money knows, baby. Money knows.

I hope that my old wallet is in heaven now, reunited with all those dollars that I read about every year when Social Security sends you that thing that tells you what you've made for your entire life. Now that I bring it up, I miss those dollars. I wonder what they're doing now...

Meat'Normous!

Ok, Burger King has introduced a new breakfast sandwich called Meat'Normous. It has ham, bacon and sausage with AN OMELETTE. On a roll. I don't quite know where to go from here. I feel like we've gone almost as far as we are likely to go in the direction of putting foods on top of, inside of, or just near other foods. These are all I can come up with:

• The I've Got A Small Penis-wich - It's a turkey and swiss cheese sandwich. But stuffed into each slice of turkey is a prime rib steak. And in each slice of cheese you will find a baked potato jammed in there. Wrapped around each slice of bread are slices of breaded and deep-fried bacon. The toothpicks that hold the sandwich together are made of steel-reinforced lard.
• The Compensator - One pound of lean roast beef piled high on the four pounds of fat that was cut off of it to make it that lean. Instead of bread, this is served between two live crocodiles that have been lovingly stunned into docility for easy devouring.
• The Meat-meeters Meat-style Affair: This is a whole, fresh baby orangutan dipped in honey-mustard made of the aqueous humour distilled from whale eyeballs. This one comes with a slab of tofu with which to wipe your mouth.
• The Powerhouse - With this one you start with an entire loaf of sourdough bread and a bison. When you take a bite, a board-certified cardiologist pops out and punches you in the dick.

Friendster...now?

Ok, I just joined. Like, now. I also just recognized Alaska and Hawaii as states. Next week, I am going to start listening to something called "jazz" which seems to be very popular among the hopheads and negroes.

It's not my fault. I was perfectly content to live my life without a friend(ster) in the world. But somebody asked me to be their Friendster. I wouldn't want to be unfriendlyster. Or unfriendsterly. The point is, I wouldn't want to be a douche. Sometimes you can't help it -- sometimes you're just a douche. That's life. (Apologies for obviously cribbing that douche line from Anna Karenina. Boy, what a douche Tolstoy was. Well, that's what I heard.)

Now that I think of it, I wish that there was a website called "douchester." I would join that in a heartbeat. But then it would probably get cool and I'd have to wait 3 or 4 years for it to dork down again. And then I could rejoin.

There you go. TotalUnbelievableDorkSter. I could get behind that. Or SteamingTurdSter? I think I'd only be genuinely excited to join "Foodster" because I mostly just enjoy eating. And I wouldn't even join that. I'd just keep eating, you know, sort of freelance.

Maybe I'll start a website called LonerSter, and you just don't sign up. I think I might enjoy that.

Ode to the Beginning of Autumn

-by Jeff Mac

Ah, Autumn. Oh...uh...you. You back-to-schoolie time when we buy pencils. And by "we" I mean other people. Young people, most likely. Or older people who draw things and need that eraser. Ahhh, eraser. Sorry, different ode. Sorry, sorry.

Ah, when your leaves turn...ok, hold on. I'm not going to start sentences with "Ah" anymore. It's just my way of deflecting just how bad an ode this really is. But we all know it's a total shit ode, even among shit odes. I don't even know how many GOOD odes there are. Probably...eleven. Yeah, I'm sure that is the exact number.

Ok, recommencing ode.

Hey, Autumn! Nice rack! I mean "foliage." Fall foliage is nature's rack. And she's looking good. Mother Nature, you total MILF, you. (No MILFs were harmed in the writing of that sentence.)

Ok, time to say something three times. Clever poetry people do that, you know. Ok, uh, here we go.

Autumn dreams, floating in streams of golden orange.
floating in streams
floating in streams
floating in streams

I hope you don't mind, hope you don't mind that I've put down in ode. How wonderful life is, now Autumn's in the...wode.

Ugh.

Dear guy who brought his own seat cushion onto the subway,

How are you!? I'm doing great, sir. I really am. I'm having such a wonderful Autumn morning that I'm going to let you slide. Just for today, you get a free pass on bringing your own upholstery into your transit experience.

For future reference, however, you might want to at least get a cover for that seat cushion. That torn up, stained piece of yellowing foam would, on a lousier day, get you a thorough blogging from the Mac. And you know you don't want any part of that, boyo. Next time, that's yo ass. People far and wide know...that...uhhh...ok, I'm not that intimidating. But stop being weird please.

Oh, and you might want to rethink the black dress socks with those tan sandals. Not for my sake, for your own. I don't know if you've hit that age when you are no longer confident that there might be sex in your life. Personally, I hit that age at about 12 years old, so I can relate. Regardless, that fashion decision helps no one. Leave it be.

Sincerely,

That guy you sat too close to and breathed near in a disturbing way yesterday

I love you, mad scientists!

Well, as reported recently, war dolphins may have accidentally been released by hurricane Katrina. They are affable, adorable, and deadly. They are equipped with toxic darts. And they are annoyed that we made them jump through hoops for fish. I fear that this will create a firestorm of controversy surrounding some of the more bizarre programs at the Pentagon. Some examples:

• Deadly earthworms that carry m16 rifles. And they are not in fact earthworms, but special forces soldiers disguised to look like earthworms. Oh, wait. No, they're just dressed like regular soldiers. Ok, that one seems fine.
• Specially trained grizzly bears which will abjectly refuse to attack anyone. They just sit there and look at the enemy. When the target becomes complacent, a trained marmot flies in on a tiny hang-glider fitted with a special harness, and pokes him until one of them falls asleep.
• Cats that are capable of ignoring orders from as high up as the commander-in-chief. They are also able to pretend they give a shit about you if you are holding a bag of their food. There are rumors that some of these also escaped and are currently mixed in with the regular cat population.
• A bag of grenades with friendly, smiling faces painted on each of them. The enemy soldier will start to sort through them, smiling back at them. And then, I don't know, maybe one of them goes off? (This one is still in development.)

Mixed Emotions

Well, last night it was sort of autumnal here in NYC. On one hand, I was so happy that I almost peed and/or cried. Or cried tears of pee. I was pretty happy about it. NYC summers are best described by this quote from my good friend, Sarah Fisch:

"Summer makes me want to kill myself and all of y'all."

Amen, sister.

But on the other hand, the ending of that hellbender of a summer sort of blows my little fantasy that the earth is about to crash into the sun, rendering my credit card debt null and void. And right before we were all destroyed, I would sentence 3 space criminals to a weird flying mirror, and then send my only son to a distant planet where he would save people and wear tights and things.

I think I like that idea because it would be such an ingenious way to avoid having to raise a child without coming across as selfish.

MEMORANDUM

TO: Jeff Mac
FROM: Jeff Mac
RE: Safety Tip

IMPORTANT: You do NOT know how to install a ceiling fan. You really don't. So please stop trying. It's just not your bag. This is not an threat to your manhood*.

Furthermore, the saying "That which does not kill you makes you stronger" does not apply to electricity. It sort of falls under the "that which absolutely kills you" category.

Just be content that if your ceiling fan is having computer problems at any point, you could fix those.

Sincerely,

Yourself


*It's the fact that you are a wussy that's the threat to your manhood. This is more of an "icing on the you're-not-much-of-a-man cake**" sort of a thing, so don't sweat it.
**Some people have said that there is no such cake. Of course there is.

The Big Bed Theory

Ok, I have told every human I've seen in person, plus several of the gods and goddesses (Norse, mostly, if that matters to you) about my new bed. I can't stop talking about it. Maybe that's partly because I'm coming off a many year stint on a futon. Well, that nonsense is over. A new era of comfort and support has begun.

Sure, this thing covers roughly 75% of my living space. You know what? I generally spend roughly 75% of my time asleep. Perfect.

Some salient features for all of you reading at home:

• It is the kind of bed which, if you were so inclined, you could put a glass of red wine on one side and jump up and down on the other. And it wouldn't spill the wine. You could do that first part on any bed. (Disclaimer: I tried this yesterday with a mug of tea. I pushed down lightly and the tea rocked around like crazy. Had I jumped up and down, it would have gone flying for sure. So...the bed lied to me once. Oh, I can't stay mad at you, bed. Just never lie to me again.)
• On it, I not only have a comforter, but also a duvet cover. I don't even have a duvet. I don't think. Unless that's what the comforter is, in which case somebody isn't keeping consistent with their naming scheme. Work on that, Macy.
• I also own a bedskirt. Had I known that this item was also called "The thing you put on your bed to hide the shameful pile of crap you've crammed under it" I would have bought one with far more verve. As it stands, I had only marginal verve at that time. I would like more verve when I buy things, I'm saying.

So, it's a big, awe-inspiring, monolithic, adult-sized bed just for me. In fact, I prefer it that way. I would WAY rather that than to have some totally hot woman in there totally making out with me once in a while. Who needs that hassle? Not me, that's for sure.*

* Reverse psychology always works. Always.

Dear Mosquito That I Killed at 3 a.m.,

How are you? I am just fine. I'm doing great, actually. Especially since I killed the holy hell out of you after you drank a quart of my blood without permission, written or otherwise.

Now that I mention it, how do you do it? You must have a very high metabolism to drink all that blood and maintain that figure. As I squashed you, you looked fantastic. I would have expected you to have ballooned out to the size of a little floating kitten. Well, you don't know how lucky you are. Or were, right up until the moment you got cocky and hovered near my arm in full view. Yeah, that was a really dumb move.

But the bigger question is, where in the hell were you hiding during the period when you were draining me dry with impunity? See, I know you're just a mosquito and are therefore maybe not 100% in touch with the real estate market. I accept that. But this is what they call in the real estate section a "cozy, quaint, adorable" studio. There just ain't that many places to hide in here, even for you.

However you did it, I commend you. I almost wish you were alive so that I could shake your little hand. Actually, I mostly wish you were alive so that I could kill you all over again. I'm sure it was less than ideal for you but I found it supremely satisfying.

Sincerely,

Jeff

P.S. Please feel free to haunt your friends and family in the mosquito community and convey to them the deal that I make with all household pests (pardon the term): I will allow you to live provided that I have no knowledge of your existence. Once you're on my radar, sorry, but I'm just going to have to kill you. I think that is more than fair. Thank you.

Things Jeff Mac Loves About the New Apartment...

Well, it looks like I have internet access a little sooner than expected. The move went remarkably smoothly, and I'm loving the new place. So here is a rundown of some of my favorite things about it:

1. The Surly Sandwich Place - I was able to get a very nice sandwich while being sneered at by a hipster simultaneously. The dude was listening to music that was so avant garde, I felt like the artist might have been mad at me for something, and this was his/her way of punishing me. And I'm sure that if I had said, "Hey, I love this song!" the hipster would have tossed it into the trash and put on a recording of someone running their fingers down a chalkboard while being stabbed.
2. The Most Powerful Shower on Earth - The water pressure in this place is so intense it actually hurts. Hurts so good. And the temperature? My last apartment's shower was just above room temperature, which is very nice if you're going for a refreshing polar bear swim on January 1st. In my new place, sometimes I'll just stand in there and scald myself. Why? Because I can.
3. The Very Cool Bar Where I'm Pretty Sure There Was a Greasefire In the Kitchen, But Nobody Seemed To Mind - It's called "Kili" which, unless there's another meaning I don't know about, was one of the characters in The Hobbit. I'm totally in.
4. The Delightfully Chatty Super Who Was, as a Boy, a Member of the Hitler Youth. Seriously. - Not much to say about this one. Except that he has a tiny dog named Snoopy that is so mellow I think I'd be holding a mirror up to that thing’s nose right about now.

Warning: Temporary Decrease in Blogularity...

Hello all. I am moving tomorrow, and my internet service is not likely to be hooked up until at least Tuesday so I will not be able to blog as frequently as I would like. Why should you care? Well, you shouldn't. And yet somehow you do. It's almost eerie.

Until then, if you miss me THAT honkin' much, here are some things you can do:

1. Sit alone in your room and sigh, "Jeff Mac. Jeff Mac." I do this all the time, and it is very therapeutic.
2. Go through the archives of this website and read things that you either never read, forgot you read, or didn't think were funny the first time. You never know -- maybe your standards have dropped by now.
3. Also, if you're in the NYC area, why not come on down and see me at the Comedy Pro Shop @ Sin Sin on Sunday night? I'll be performing with a GREAT lineup of comics including Ophira Eisenberg, Bob Powers, Debbie Shea and more. Oh, much more. And it's hosted by the always awesome Rob Paravonian. All the details are on my little web calendar thingie on the right. No, down a little. Yes, exactly.

If I don't see you at Sin Sin, I'll catch you around Tuesday or so, right here, with more notes from the moron underground.

I love almost all of you,

-mac

Know what's awesome about packing for a move?

Not a goddamn thang.

Then again, it is nice to throw all those shit gifts away that you've kept only out of New Englander guilt.

"Oh, I got that lamp thing from my aunt for Christmas. Of course, I can tell it was for Christmas because it's a string of Christmas lights crammed into a glass globe with pot pourri which smells as the lights get hot. This way, it is unappealing to several senses at once."

Bye bye.

But I'm keeping the Jar Jar Binks underwear*. After all, I'm not completely without a soul. Plus, I do material about them, and if I didn't have them to present at the end of the bit, who would believe that they are real?

*Not a joke. Laydeez? Hubba hubba, right?

Target: When Quality is No Object

When you're moving into a new apartment, you have to buy things. Sometimes you buy them at Target.

Premise complete.

Amongst the wonderfully cheapo items at Target (i.e. something that said "Electronic Microwave" -- you know, for when you tire of the hand crank ones) I saw something that I think will usher in a whole new era in kitchening.

The "Potato Ricer".

Now...I have never riced a potato. Nor have I potatoed rice. I always sort of considered that something of an either/or decision that you would make when you bought your food. And never have I experienced such buyer's remorse from a potato purchase that I actually wanted to transmute it to an entirely different starch. And since both potatoes and rice cost about 20 cents a serving, maybe you can splurge and get both and decide later, even.

However, in my adorable/quaint/cozy/rustic/microscopic new apartment, this is the kind of space-saving idea that may have found it's niche. I can' t be storing both potatoes AND rice. I'll be lucky to get even one of those through the door. So, I get this device, buy a potato, and I make that fucker dance.

Some other devices that I think Target should carry:

• The Corn Chickener - Look, sometimes you buy something and you want something different, ok?
• The Hamster Monkeyer - This is likely an overseas item, but I think it has a demographic out there.
• The Cheese Lamper - This is for when you have accidentally ordered so much cheese online that, during delivery, one of the piles of brie wheels tips over and destroys one of your lamps. This nearly never happens, but when it does you will feel very foolish for not owning this device.
• The Water Winer - Old device that they used to sell at the Williams Sonoma in the Nazareth Heights Mall.
• The Grape Complete Thanksgiving Dinnerer - Great way to economize during the holidays.
  

And if they would only invent a Dust Casher or a Pile of 20 Coffee Mugs Diamonder, I'd be well on my way to financial freedom.

Tiny Apartment? Check!

Well, as promised, I have accepted the apartment that I saw yesterday. Well, maybe not accepted. I've still got to go through the the other 4 stages of moving to a very small apartment (denial, anger, bargaining, and going to Ikea.) But I have faith that I'll get there.

In order to fit my life into this quaint/cozy/unique space, I will have to make some adjustments in my lifestyle:

• I will only be able to have one guest over at a time. Since I'm not that crazy about most people, I think that's not going to be too bad. And it's not as if there's a line to visit me at my current apartment, so I'm probably fine.
• I will have to have a murphy kitchen and bathroom. Pretty much everything will be folding down from somewhere.
• My bed will now pull double duty as the stove, and all of that gets stored in the microwave during the day(note to self: doublecheck measurements on that.)
• I will now convert everything to the metric system. For instance, 200 square feet doesn't sound like much, but how about 185,806.08 square centimeters? I could get lost in that puppy!
• No puppies.

Other than these minor shifts, I think it's all going to work out just fine!

This is the one!!!

Ok, I'm looking at an apartment in an hour, and I'm totally taking it. As long as it's humanly doable. I don't care anymore. I can't look at any more apartments that are wood panelled with a linoleum floor designed to look like wood panelling. I don't want to talk myself into the benefits of living in a treehouse. I'm just taking it.

Here are my current "dealbreakers" on accepting this apartment.

• The apartment must exist, and be fully indoors.
• It must not currently be on fire.
• The walls must not be poisonous to humans.

Beyond that, I'm totally in.

Where are the killer bees?

Shouldn't they be here by now, terrorizing us? Not that the bees are "terrorist" bees as such. (Although I must admit that I am in favor of putting bees on the no-fly list. I don't care if that seems "racist" or "closed-minded")

I mean, we don't need to brand them terrorists. Isn't it bad enough that there are "killer" bees? Or the lesser known "rapist bees" which are even worse, if you think about it.

They are probably worse even if you don't think about it. So I wouldn't think about it if I were you. It will be so much better for you if you don't. I know I don't. Never do. I'm not even thinking about it as I'm writing about it here. I know that seems impossible, but for me it's no problem. You see, I can write but I never learned to read.

Baby Massage

I saw an advertisement that said that licensed massage therapists will, for $60 an hour, massage your baby. Now, I can understand this if your infant is a professional athlete (or even a high-level amateur). But it's also useful just to relieve the stresses associated with their difficult lifestyle of taking naps and sucking on breasts all day. It is not easy. That's why they cry all the time, and why they find it so hard to control their bowels. It's all the pressure. I feel really bad for them.

I just hope that they can make it through to all the bills, jobs, and responsibilities of adulthood, so they can finally relax. Haven't they earned it, America*?


*also Australia and/or the UK**
**That's the United Kingdom and/or the University of Kentucky.

Netratings.com?

As some of you may know I am obsessed with looking at my web stats to see if I can figure out who is looking at this site. One of the IP addresses is from something called "netratings.com" which is like the Nielsens but for the internet.

Do I have a Nielsen family looking at MY website?? Oh, that would be SO COOL. Of course, I'll have to make some changes around here if that's the case. No, no, nothing major. I don't want to completely throw away what got me to this exalted stage. Just some sprucing up.

While writing entries, I will wear a monacle, bowtie and tophat. So no changes there. But from now on, I will wear nothing else. I think that will give this site the kick in the pants it's been missing. After all, of all the comments I get, the most frequent is, "More kicks in pants!" My apartment often has protesters surrounding it, chanting that very slogan. Or sometimes it's:

Leader: What do we want?
Crowd: Kicks in Pants!!!
Leader: How often do we want it?
Crowd: More!!!!!

Happens all the time. All. The. Time.

Size Matters.

I saw the apartment that I posted about yesterday. Yeah. Yeah that's pretty small. Ain't no WAY that's 300 square feet. Maybe they meant cubic feet. It is slightly larger than the human skull.

Some features:

• Loft area for a bed. Could have been great. However, there is only room for a twin bed up there, and I just don't like the sexual pessimism in that. Sort of the opposite of the "If you build it, they will come" mentality.
• Lots of Storage Space: Again, in many apartments, this could be a real bonus. However, there are some things that I'm going to need to have un-stored out in the actual living space itself. Such as a bed. Or my legs and arms, say.
• Brand New Appliances: Always a treat, however the "kitchen" in which they have been wedged is dwarfed by each burner on the 4 burner stove. I was doing some quick math, and as near as I can tell the owner must have installed the stove and THEN built the apartment around it.
• Private Basement: More storage! Great if you own a lot of things that you don't ever touch, and NOTHING that you ever need to actually use. And if you sleep like a bat hanging from a pole.

I'm telling you, the price is so right and the block is so nice I'm still considering it. If only for the material.

I think this could be a great apartment if you were just starting out and you were celibate and by gosh you intended to stay that way. And if you were only a torso. Or just a head in a jar. Or a really independent toddler.

GOD I wish I was 20" tall. This place would be ideal. With the loft, it would feel like a duplex. Ah well. Back to craigslist.

How small is it?

Ok, so I'm looking at apartments this week. I am going to see a studio that is 250 to 300 square feet. Just to give you a point of reference, one of those litterboxes with the little roof on it is, I believe, 200 square feet.

For those of you using the metric system, that translates to something like 25 cubic hectares per liter*.

Ok, I have no idea how to convert a room that I'm standing in into square footage. Unless the room is one square foot in size, in which case I might be able to fit in there for a little while, but I would probably have to get there via a high school football player locker room hazing sort of deal. And I'm fine with that, as long as I don't have to pay a realtor's fee.

*That's in Kelvin, I believe.

My 5,000th Hit!!!

Hello, all.

Sometime last night, this blog got viewed for the 5,000th time.

I just wanted to write to say thanks for making my website the most viewed website I have. Of the nearly two websites that I run...ok, call it one...this is the most popular one. Of that one, I'm saying.

Now Molly Ringwald's website will want to date this website, and she won't even notice that John Cryer's website will want to date HER website. But it will all work out in the end, I'm sure.

These 5,000 hits can mean only one thing: Aside from the 4,000 times I've probably viewed it myself, you have all really been helping out with my web statistics/self-esteem. And that's what it's all about for me. It's not about the comedy. I'm all about racking up the points. And thanks to you, I totally have the high score on this website.

In the future, you can look forward to more nonsense. Lucky you. I plan to post some excerpts from my "attempting to kill that giant fly in my apartment, along with our bi-annual mouse" journal. and more. Oh, so much more. And less, if you think about it.

What comes next

Most religions like to tell you exactly what's going to happen after you die. Since nobody knows what really happens, and those people are just making it up anyway, I thought I'd take the liberty of doing the same. After all, I might be right. And if I am, how can I justify keeping the truth from you, the common bored person reading this in lieu of working?

Ok, here's what happens.

When we die, during the first 30-90 minutes directly following death, nothing major happens. It takes a little while for the paperwork to go through. At that point, we ride a magical squirrel on a HotWheels racetrack past every Baskin Robbins we ever went to!

And then, we are shown a short film of a czar battling with a tsar for the spelling rights. The camera work is terrible, but the story is remarkably engaging.

Then, we are given a Silkwood shower where all of our sins are loofah'ed away. This lasts anywhere from an hour to 2 weeks, depending upon how skanky or creepy you've been.

At that point, we are poked with a stick twice. No one knows why.

Finally, we are brought to a lovely studio apartment near the subway line of our choice, and given a very reasonable lease agreement.

Silly, right? Yeah, I guess the Bible makes WAY more sense than this.

If there are any questions regarding any aspect of the afterlife, I am more than happy to answer them.

How to become wealthy in 300 very difficult steps!

I was in the bookstore looking at the "so, you're completely broke" books, and I came across one called, "Start Late, Finish Rich." Sounded good so far. I've got half of that covered before even buying the thing. In fact, I'll start saving my money by not paying for that book! It really works!

On the back cover, it was saying that you might think that you are the only one who hasn't been planning for the future, but did you know that the person on your left probably has $8,000 in credit card debt, and the person on your right probably has less than $1,000 in their savings account??

It was at this point that I realized that this book might not be for me. I mean, when their negative examples of how bad it can get are essentially my financial heroes, maybe I start with smaller steps.

I think my first goal will be this: When I go to the ATM and it asks if I would like a receipt, I would like for my reaction to be something other than, "Jesus Christ, NO!" And then I'll go from there.

Dear couple from Minnesota whose stuff I just carried into your 4th floor walkup,

Hello? Remember me? I'm one of the 2 guys you hired to carry your stuff up to your lovely new apartment. You know, the one with the rent that is so cheap that, even though you were extraordinarily nice, very nice, maybe TOO nice, I sort of wished you were dead? Yeah! That's the one!

Couple of quick things.

First, and this is more of a question - What good is that dresser going to do you in your apartment that I might not do on the ground floor in the hallway, say?

Secondly, if and when you decide to move out, rather than move all that stuff again, just go ahead and burn that building down. I promise, it's not as hard as it looks. Trust me on this. You'll thank me later.

Actually, you were both lovely people. And your belongings, while heavy, were not insanely so. I'm just not wild about manual labor. I think it's because you have to do so much of it by hand.

Sincerely,

too tired to type my name, but not too tired to type this much longer phrase.

Charting my new singlehood...

Hello, gentle* readers. Well, it appears that I am a newly single person. My girlfriend and I are in the process of breaking up and I thought it would be valuable to keep you all posted on my progress through the 5 stages of grief as laid out by Elisabeth Kubler Ross:

• DENIAL - I don't think I'm going to have this one. Not at all. There is nothing that I'm denying. Everything is fine. I'm totally fine. Totally.
• BARGAINING - I'm pretty sure that I'm not going to have to deal with this one either. As long as I start flossing every day (and I mean EVERY day) and if I exercise regularly and eat more vegetables, I probably won't have to feel much of this at all. I just have to be really good. Really. I'll do anything, so it's fine.
• ANGER - This is not a problem for me, and if you think it is then feel free to go fuck yourself. I mean it. I am NOT experiencing anger, so just shut your stupid fucking mouth about it. No, I am NOT shouting.
• DEPRESSION - Well...I mean, what's the point in even going THROUGH this stage? It just seems like such a useless thing to do. I'm serious. I just can't imagine having the energy.
• ACCEPTANCE - Totally. I'm totally there. (see DENIAL.)

Well, that's taken care of. Whew! I guess it's on with the rest of my life. Huzzah!

*And rough, scratchy ones too, of course.

There's nothing funny happening today...

It's strange. I think it's probably related to science or religion. But there is just nothing funny happening today.

Wait. Hold on a second. I think...yes. Yes. There's something funny about a squirrel...today. See, that doesn't sound right. I don't think that...A squirrel that...walks? A squirrel that walks. That really doesn't seem that funny. I guess in comparison to other stuff, it might be hilarious. Maybe not.

I hope this passes soon. It's just terrible for business. The business of writing comedy on the internet for absolutely no money whatsoever. I'll keep you all posted.

The Museum of Glass!

They are running a commercial right now where they are showing the joy that you can bring to your family if you take them to a museum where they show you how glass is blown.

It actually has the balls to suggest that "sisters get along with brothers!" during the big show.

How much do you have to dislike your children to select this vacation? Children don't like museums anyway. And even if they did, very, very few people on the earth are mesmerized by the magic of how glass gets into that bottle-ey shape we've come to know and love.

Here are some slogans for this museum:

• For when you love your children, just not very much.
• Ever wonder how glass is made? Uh, no? Really? Huh. Well...want to see anyway?
• Did your car break down in town? Will it take a really long time to fix it? Come on by!
• Trying to work up the nerve to keep that suicide pact, but just aren't in the mood?
• Guaranteeing awkward silence on the ride home for 15 years running!
• Glass is boring - are you? Then be sure to stop by!

Greatest Cable Guide Listing Ever

Black Sunday R *** 1977
A terrorist lures a blimp pilot into a plot to spray the Superbowl with darts.

First of all, YES! Hurray! This is a fantastic idea. Not to actually DO, of course. That would really hurt. I'm saying that I can't believe there aren't more movies about darts! Or just featuring darts. Or more terrorists who use them. Ever been sprayed with darts? Me neither, but I bet it SUCKS. I'm serious.

Secondly, my favorite word in the description is "lures." I imagine the blimp pilot is maybe an orangutan, and the terrorist is waving a banana in front of the plot to spray the Superbowl with darts, making those clicking noises and going, "Come on! Here, boy! Come on. Come-on-you-know-you-want-a-banana."

There is no good word for that noise we make when we are luring dogs to stuff. Or blimp pilots into plots.

Also, orangutans maybe don't even like bananas. That's a cultural stereotype and I'm ashamed for having used it here. I'd like to think I'm above that sort of thing. Ok, make it a caesar salad. And instead of an orangutan, make it an ocelot. Or a lynx. I feel so much better.

Miscellaneous advice

1. If HBO comes to you and says, "Hey, we've got a documentary series and we'd like to film you doing what you do," here's how you should respond. One, politely refuse. Two, stop it. Whatever it is that HBO wants to film you doing, you've got to cut that shit out. It's not doing anybody any good.
2. If you're a stupid president, here's my advice. Ok. let me back up. I don't know for sure that he's stupid. He may be a genius with an image problem. Sure he might. But if you are the allegedly demi-retarded guy who said you would "bring dignity back to the oval office," I think it would be a good idea to stop BY the oval office once in awhile. The sticks in your backyard will keep, I promise.
3. Don't go onstage and attempt to do comedy that you haven't written yet. (That one's for me.)
4. Don't try to make me like anchovies. I promise, it's not because I haven't tried them with an open mind. I really tried. They just blow.
5. If you're seriously overweight and think that doughnuts are perfectly reasonable food, don't become my college nutrition teacher. It's just not your bag.

The Army's new spy drone

Following the amazing success of the unmanned Predator, they are building another way to kill people without having to go near them. This next one can not only fly off to distant locales and blow them up, but it can actually take off and land automatically. Several points:

1. Given that this already exists in the movie Stealth, can't we just force our enemies to watch that? I promise they will feel very punished.

2. I think this sends the wrong message to the terrorists. I mean, if we don't care enough to blow the shit out of them in person, how can we expect them to understand that we're serious about the whole "please stop attacking us" thing?

3. Since I'm paying for it anyway, I would like them to develop a drone that will renew my drivers licence. Or pay my bills with money that it earns at a job that it automatically goes out and finds. Why don't dronesmiths ever consider MY needs?

Excuses for my recent lack of blogularity...

Hello, you. I just wanted to explain my recent dearth of blog postings. Yeah, dearth. There was one. A dearth, I'm saying. There was a real dearth in there somewhere as far as I'm concerned. I don't usually like to have dearths* if I can avoid them.

Here are just some of the many, many reasons why I have not blogged in a few days:

• Sun was in my eyes.
• I thought I heard someone else say, "I got it" and my old sunday school volleyball instincts kicked in. It was probably a flashback. Volleyball is a lot like Vietnam, if only for that first letter. Seriously, think about it. Creepy. God damn it, Johnny, don't you die on meeeee!!!!!!
• Iditarod practice ran late. Don't worry, none of the huskies or malamutes** were overworked.
• Waiting by the phone in case someone called to tell me that I was rich. Oddly, nothing yet. Hm. I checked the phone, too. It seems to be working fine.
• I was planning my own funeral and as the temperature in my apartment reached "furnace" levels, I began to actually look forward to it.
• I forgot there was an internet.
• I think the main button on my mouse**** was malfunctioning.

In the future, I will do my best to avoid such interruptions in service. Sadly, my best is something less than impressive.

Sincerely*****,

-the management

* You never hear the plural form "dearths" and I mean to remedy that.
** I don't know if there's a difference between the two, and whenever I would ask them they would either stare or just pee on me to mark me as their property***.
*** Not nearly as upsetting as you might think. In fact, it was rather charming.
**** Computer mouse, of course. My actual mouse is functioning perfectly well. And yes, I checked all of her buttons. She's fine. Just let it go, can't you?
***** This word is not meant to be taken literally. I am being as sincere as my Connecticut upbringing will allow.

Desperate Measures

Because of the current geopolitical climate, we are not as safe as we once were. I am therefore suggesting this feeble premise...ah...I mean, this innovative idea for improving law enforcement. Here are just some of the enhancements that I am proposing:

• Each New York City police officer will be armed with his standard issue sidearm, mace, the beat-you-over-the-head baton, a flaming baton for impromptu halftime shows, 3 novelty shop grenades because they look cool, and a 50 megaton suitcase nuke to be detonated at the first sign of trouble. This way, the terrorists know we're serious.
• The president will wear one of those belts where the buckle is a ninja star. This is not so much for his safety, but for the look of delight on his face when he unwraps it on Christmas morning. He's wanted one of these for so long. And he hasn't started a new war in a good couple of years. I think he's earned it.
• We will outlaw guns, but to ease the sadness at losing your firearms, we will give a bullwhip to anyone who wants one. I've got to think this will really spice up the news. We're all so numb to hearing about wild shootouts, but 50 man bullwhip fights are still fresh. I'm not sure how this makes us safer. I'll have to get back to you.

These are just a few of the many things I might waste time thinking of. I would really like to be invited to be a part of a national defense think tank. I think I might enjoy working in a tank.

The Glory Days

Pornographic magazines these days have such crass titles. No, don't argue with me. No, I'm serious. It's really true if you think about it. Just give my hypothesis a CHANCE before you dismiss it completely, won't you? Won't you, for at least ONE second, consider the POSSIBILITY that pornographic magazine titles are slightly uncouth? Thank you. Thank you for being reasonable. And for being flexible enough to accept a viewpoint other than your own. I hope you've learned something. I know that I have.

There was a time, people. Oh, there was a time. There sure was. I've forgotten what I was talking about, and am now just vamping. Oh right! Porno mag titles. There were plenty of times in history when the process of naming your pornography was a job filled with honor, truth, justice, and the American way. Sure there was.

Consider the Civil War era quarterly, "Brother Against Brother." Clever, classy, and reflective of the news of the day. Stonewall Jackson was known to pose twice a year for this publication. Can you imagine his rebuff to a similar request from "Semi-legal Hillside Hump"?

How about the one time prestige publishing of "The Boston Pee Party"? That one gave King George something to think about, I can assure you.

In exchange for food and shelter, Cristopher Columbus himself presented several important pieces of leatherbound erotica to the Native Americans, including most notably "The Ninnies, the Penie and the Pantsless Maria," which he was reported to have penned himself during the long months at sea. Some of the articles had to be explained to the chief, but after seeing the pictures he got the basic idea.

And other cheap wordplay as well!

How do you want it?

During the heatwave, I was moved to meditate on my own death, and what a relief it might be if the heat continued. You can't always choose how you are going to die (like most things, if you procrastinate long enough, it will be chosen FOR you. Hurray!) But I was trying to think how I would want it to go down, if I had to choose. Here are some of my ideas.

• I think it would be interesting to be slaughtered by a serial killer who was so charming and friendly that his victims' last words (always videotaped and sent to the media) were, "This guy is really not so bad. I didn't think I would say this, but I am gonna miss him."
  
• One of those people who makes that dessert called "Death by Chocolate" and can't stop saying the title because it's SO CUTE is shoved off a building and lands on me, killing us both instantly. I think people would have such mixed feelings about that.
  
• I train a squirrel to fire a gun, and he shoots me. The bullet just passes through my ankle, but the irony of it all kills me.
  
• I watch an entire episode of Mama's Family and die of shame.

How would you like to die? Hello? Is this thing on?

Things to Do When it's Wicked Hot

Hello, gentle reader(s). It's hot in my home. I don't do well in the heat. I was made for flannel. And flannel was made for me. And if you don't like it, well you can take it up with my congressman. I'm not 100% sure who that is, nor am I certain that it falls within his or her purview to help you. Or 'purrview' if you like. Or 'perv=you' if that's what you need to continue onward into this post. Personally (or pursonally), I don't really care what you do at this point. It's too hot to care.

But what I will do, sans care, is to suggest some things you can do to beat the heat. Or at least to beat the next 80 seconds or so as you read the rest of this post. Or just to 'spend' those seconds, while the heat beats you like it was your daddy.

How to Beat the Heat!
by Jeff Mac, the guy who writes everything on this blog.

• Stab someone with a fork, and then shout, "Just kidding!" as you run away.
• When your significant other comes into the room, don't get up or acknowledge them in any way. Wait until it gets really uncomfortable. (Depending upon the state of your relationship, this waiting period can be as long as 45 seconds, or just instantaneous). Once he/she begins to wonder if you're ok, say with absolutely no emotion whatsoever, "Surprise." And then go back to ignoring them. Do this until autumn, or until they sing something by Gilbert & Sullivan.
• Butter your floors and pretend to be a really unhealthy grilled cheese sandwich. Repeatedly have the argument with yourself that you would be MUCH healthier if he had used cooking spray. When asked who 'he' is, blink once and say, "Why, the lord."
• Rant and rave about how the heat is a result of global warming. When someone asks you how come winters are still cold, sing the last phrase of the song "Ebb Tide" and burst into flames. (This is a FUN one!)
• Hire a mariachi band to follow you around playing old Corey Hart songs*, but refuse to admit that you hear or see them.

Well, that's it. Too tired to wrap up.

*Is there another type of Corey Hart songs besides 'old'? Gosh I hope so.

Favorite Google Searches So Far...

Well, as I've mentioned here before, I sometimes can tell what people Googlesearched that brought them to this website. Here are my current favorites:

• getting out of jury duty: See, Mom? I'm helping people! Unless, of course, the person actually ready my advice in which case...not so much.
• "Jeff Mac", tattoo: I've never had anyone Google my actual body*. Or my vast archive of Fantasy Island fan fiction. Thanks, odd person!
• Darryl Hall 2005: This one...I'm really happy about this one. I know that guy or gal must have been disappointed. I really hope it was Darryl Hall Googling himself to see what was happening with him this year.
• Toe-thumb: I didn't know this was a thing. I thought it was just a description of one guy who happened to have a toe-thumb who touched my sneaker with it on the subway. I wish I hadn't thought about that just now. I was just getting over that shit.
• Pooped herself: This was a search that came from somebody in the UK. Well, top o' the lorry to you, matey! Glad you stopped by. I can't be sure what you were looking for, but I'm betting it wasn't my little review of America's Next Top Model where one of the models may or may not have been accusing another one of crapping her drawers.

Well, that's it for now. I hope to be googled in more and more interesting ways. And to get me started: Goatbag, Keymaster of Gozzir, Charleton Heston's backhair, Sergeant Bilko. I expect that will up my hit counter considerably.

*Well, there was that one time, but I was a sophomore in college. I don't think that should count.

A.T.F. the movie! (as told by someone who wasn't really watching)

So, I sort of watched a movie called "A.T.F." starring...uh...'Judging' Amy Brennemannnanemen. That's as close as I'm likely to get on that name. Not because it's a tough name to spell. I'm just not that interested in spelling it.

Not unlike how not-that-interested I was in watching the movie. I don't know why I even had it on, but I have to recommend a detached style of viewing for this film. I saw about 40 seconds of it every 15 minutes or so as I did various things around the apartment. From my viewpoint, it went like this.

Hey, that's Amy Branamananamanaaan! She's cute. She's got a gun. Goin' into the Branch Davidians thing at Waco. Her buddy got shot up pretty bad. She's sad.
...

Somebody's yelling at her in court. She's doing the big-girl-not-gonna-cry crying. Ohhh, I think she's remembering something sad and sort of keeping her chin up in the process

...

Is that Judith Light? No, it's Christine Lahti? Nope. I don't even know who Christine Lahti is when it's HER, let alone when it's THIS lady. Who is that lady? I don't know but her weird dog with the totally white eyeball just sniffed her car, and she got scared. Of bombs, near as I can tell

...

Hey, Amy B. is makin' out with some dude. Sad makin' out though -- she was so sad and teary that she had to mash her face up against somebody. I wonder how come she doesn't just eat a lot of ice cream like everybody else? I wonder if one of them is actually going to put the other one's entire head into their mouth?

....

Oh, she's in a bombsquad suit saving a baby from a boobytrapped highchair. Uh, do they just let you do EVERY job in the A.T.F.? Does she work in the cafeteria as well? Don't you have to have specialized training for the different jobs?

...

No, you don't! Cuz now she's undercover! Buying guns from survivalists. Oh, everybody knows she's a cop. No they don't. Yeah they do. The not-Judith-Light-but-close-e-damn-nuff lady wants her pulled out of there. Her ego is writing checks that her body can't cash. And then...


I missed the end. But since it was made for TV, I have a feeling that everything turned out just fine. She got promoted to judge, and was awarded Tyne Daly for Valor in the Face of Something.