|
|
 |
 |
I have been officially requested to never ask this question again:
"Would you say that your belief in a religion is founded upon a complete lack of understanding of science or merely a futile attempt to maintain hope in a world run by tyrannical despots?"
Posted at 05:49 pm by plki76
Where does it hurt?
I recieved an email the other day informing me that there would be chair massages being offered to relieve the stress of daily life around here. Contrary to what the name might imply, a chair massage does not involve someone rubbing down a chair, much much like Girl Scout cookies containing no actual Girl Scouts or Compassionate Republicans containing no actual compassion.
A chair massage is actually a massage given to an individual who is sitting in a contraption straight out of "Medieval Hellish Torture Monthly" (I have a subscription). The victim straddles a bar whilst resting their legs behind them at an angle. The sufferer's face going into this little halo-looking device and the arms get positioned in from on a miniature shelf-thing. In this manner is the sucker's back and kidneys fully exposed to whatever malevolent desires the massage practicioner may have.
No Mammaries to Speak of
I arrive at the room a few minuites early for my appointment and discover, to my great dismay, that the massager is a man. Well, damn. Here I was with a mental image of a leggy blonde named "Bunny"dressed in skipy clothing oiling up my back, and I get some old dude named Steve with an evil gleam in his eye.
Well, whatever, it's disappointing but hey... free massage. Steve asks me to sit in the chair, and I do so. As it turns out, when I place my face into the (much oversized for anyone whose head is not pumpkinish) facehugger I find that my gaze is now directed squarely at Steve's crotch. Oh joy.
I keep repeating my mantra of "free massage" over and over as I close my eyes and wait for Steve to begin. Steve starts off by putting his elbows on either side of my neck and attempting to drive my clavical through the floor.
Ich heisse Helga, und ich hole die SCHMERZ!
Hey, I'll be the first to admit that I haven't had a lot of professional massages in my life. Ok, before today I had none. But I have recieved massages from other people on occasions, and they generally didn't hurt like hell. In fact, they felt pretty darn good. This though. This was just REALLY DAMN PAINFUL. But who am I to say anything? Steve is a professional and must know what he's doing, right? Maybe it's supposed to feel good later or something.
So I'm expecting that at some point Steve-O will start with the actual massaging stuff. You know, moving the hands in circular motions, all that jazz. Like those chairs at Sharper Image, only better, right? No. Steve decides that he is going to lift my arm and move it in little circles while squeezing my shoulder.
It is at this point that I decide that I am in some kind of bizarre human psychology experiment. Steve is actually Dr. Svenson, head of the Institute of Behavioral Science. There is a camera in the room recording my facial expressions and somewhere there is a guy in a little room wondering how long it will take me to tell Dr. Svenson that he is a quack and should release my limbs from his grasp.
And I never saw Steve again
Sadly, Allen Funt never emerges from his hiding place and instead Steve informs me that my time is up. My neck was still as stiff and sore as when I entered, despite the fact that I filled out a little questionare asking me what area I would like him to concentrate on. Of course, given what he did to my shoulders, I'm not sure I could have survived whatever torture he had in mind for my neck...
Posted at 05:03 pm by plki76
Say Hello To My Little Friend!
Dirty Cock-a-roaches
I would like to think that if I ever rise to the head of a large criminal organization I will surround myself with henchmen who are intelligent but not ambitious and ruthless but not psychopathic. These henchmen will at all times have heartbeat sensors on them. That way when they are silently killed by the ninjas that have been sent to attack me, I'll still know about it. I might also have them wear little bells. You know, like cats do. That way I know if they're trying to sneak up on me.
It shouldn't be a problem to staff the headquarters of my crime syndicate. There seems to be no real lack of henchmen to do one's bidding. Rarely have I seen a gangster film where the main characterts are not surrounded by all assortments of weapon-wielding thugees. It's not a bad life, when you think about it. Your main job is basically to stand around with a machine gun for about eighty minutes. Then, with about ten minutes left in the film the action sequence will start. That's pretty much the end of the road for you though. You're just not going to live past the climactic shootout scene if your name is "Criminal #13".
Say goodnight to the bad guy
When I am head of this organization, I will take great pains to eliminate people who are generally considered to be insane. Anyone with a nickname that involves "mad", "crazy" or "sick" gets popped real quick-like. No matter how much they are revered by their peers for their craziness, they will have an accident. One thing that you don't need when you are a prime target is one of your guys randomly deciding to take offense at something that another bosse's henchmen says. This can only lead to tears, bloodshed and your eventual capture or demise.
And speaking of capture, that's one thing that I would plan to avoid. These criminals always seem to be arrested on tax evasion charges. Well, that's just no good. My plan would be to set up some shell company whose cover story is internet gambling. This gambling site would have dummy players who would stop by and convienently lose millions of dollars on a regular basis. Then, you know what, I'd go ahead and pay the damn taxes. Yeah, that's right. I'd pay the taxes. Hell, in that bracket and with a decent lawyer I'd only be paying about $5 annually anyway, so what do I care. Everyone is happy in this situation. The government gets their money, I get my money, and nobody goes to prison
I always tell the truth. Even when I lie.
I will also be sure to not sink into a downward spiral of despair, drugs and alcohol. I will not be melancholy and depressed whilst sitting atop my jewel-encrusted Throne of Power. There will be no binge-drinking alcholoism or inebriated shouting. There's just no point in it. Instead of self-destruction, why not try channeling that energy into something positive. You know, like basketmaking or needlepoint? Something that you can be proud of!
Saldy I don't think that I'm cut out to be the head of a ring of international drug smugglers. It seems like a lot of work. Always having to order people's executions. Eating Italian food all the time. Reloading my gun after spraying bullets everywhere. I think I'd rather just sit in an office chair and write code. Less effort.
Posted at 11:41 am by plki76
I'm only happy when it rains
Here comes the rain again
I live in a city where it rains approximately 200 days out of every year. The rain is a constant companion, kind of comforting in a way. No matter what else happens in life, you can always be sure that those ugly grey clouds are just around the corner, waiting to restore normalcy to life.
The constant rain does have its advantages. The number of depressed people in Seattle is low, because they just don't last that long. The sunlight and the uplifting moods that it brings means that distraught people in California can hang on for months or even years before they finally succumb or get better, but up here they're either getting help or taking the plunge right quick. Plus, there's the savings on sunscreen to take into account. That's gotta add up to at least five, maybe six dollars every year. So, like I said, there are perks.
Raindrops are falling on my head
However, there are also a few downsides. The most annoying downside is the fact that people cannot seem to figure out how to drive when it rains. It's odd, too, since it rains so often. One would expect them to have ample amounts of driving experience in wet weather conditions and be confident in their skills. I would expect people to be cruising around town at 90 miles per hour and power-drifting around corners like some kind of Rally Car driver on crack.
Instead what we get is people who refuse to take their car out of second gear and plod along at approximately thirty miles an hour. If they see a puddle up ahead they will immediately slam on the brakes, lest they go through the puddle only to discover that the road has washed out. Even though the previous ninety cars ahead of them went through without incident, it's better to be safe than sorry. You never know when a sudden sinkhole will appear.
This is especially frustrating when one is riding a motorcycle. My crotch slowly accumulates water as I manhandle the clutch for miles on end behind these drivers. Since they have no concept of how the defogger on their car works, they change lanes without bothering to look, preferring to rely instead on the wisdom of Mr. Kenobi to get them through the day. By the time I get home there is a family of goldfish living in my boxer shorts and my heart is thumping like a motel six headboard.
Singing in the rain
I think that the driving test out here should reflect actual road conditions. None of this "make three left turns and try not to run anyone over while you do it" crap. No, take people out to a track and spray a firehose at their windshield as they attempt to slalom and parallel park. While they're doing that, have little old ladies in huge beater cars come careening at them from random angles while screaming their death kell. Anyone that can't take the pressure is denied a driver's license until they get it right.
Posted at 01:52 pm by plki76
Happy 4th
This fourth of July has been a pretty good one for the penguin clan. Not only do we celebrate another anniversary of our ninja minions liberating this fine country from the oppressive regieme of those brutish British, but my sister has birthed her second child. Thus our numbers are bolstered as little Evan Ryan Penguin joins this universe as a separate entity.
Current reports indicate that all he really does so far is cry and poop. Although this does put him roughly on par with our president, I do expect little Evan to expand his repritoire to include vital living functions such as opening his eyes, gurgling and complaining about slow drivers.
Little Evan weighed approximately nine pounds at birth, which I hear is a lot. Doesn't seem like all that much to me though. Just today in fact a tiny Japanese man ate seventeen pounds of intestines stuffed with calf brains and pig snouts. Seventeen pounds of what can only loosley be called meat compared to a mere nine pounds of baby flesh. I think we have a clear winner.
You don't always get what you wanted
My sister originally did not want the Evster to be born on July 4th. This is because she is a kill-joy. Mothers are like that you know. No fun at all. Who wouldn't want to have their birthday on the fourth? Every year you get fireworks and parties. Every year people celebrate the day of your birth with much fanfare and carousing. It's like a free ego boost once a year. "All this is for me", one can imagine. "Yes. Light the fireworks and make merry with the music. I shall allow you to honor me in your own quaint peaseant way. Celebrate! Celebrate, my minions! Celebrate and let the heavens shake with the fury of your adorement! LET THERE BE LIGHT!" Or maybe it's just me. Could be just me.
Regardless, Mac Daddy E is a little patriotic bundle of joy. Or at least a patriotic poop factory. Viva la Evan!
Posted at 12:49 am by plki76
|
 |
|
 |
|
 |
|
|
|
