September 2007 Archives
I've been hung up on the idea of people who drive around listening to indecipherable static. No, I'm not talking about the new 50 Cent album. When I worked as a valet, I would sometimes enter cars from a variety of guests for the purpose of putting the cars away. Intermittently, but more than I ever would've expected, I would valet a car for a folk/pair of folks/group of folks that had the radio tuned to channels which don't come in. Rental cars, usually, and usually older people. A married couple, for instance, would pick up a car from the airport, get in, and drive the 15 minutes to the downtown hotel with the radio on -- tuned into pure static. That sound you get when you're between actual channels.
How could you sit there in your car with your wife, listening to nothing but indecipherable static, and not mind? I'm saying this was usually turned up to entirely audible levels. Who is the person who gets to that point? Will that happen to me someday, when I will be able to be such a dried up, useless person, that I will not even notice that the radio in my rental car isn't actually tuned to a channel, but I'm driving around listening to it?
Specifically, who are these people? They didn't even take the time to turn the radio off; indecipherable static, at a clearly audible level, was good enough. I'm wondering if they even spoke to one another, most times. I'm wondering if it says more about our society, as it relates to our minds and our attention span. Probably not, but it's an intriguing phenomenon. You may have never imagined that people would regularly do this, but I'm sad to report that many people (probably unintentionally) engaged in such an activity. Who are they?
How could you sit there in your car with your wife, listening to nothing but indecipherable static, and not mind? I'm saying this was usually turned up to entirely audible levels. Who is the person who gets to that point? Will that happen to me someday, when I will be able to be such a dried up, useless person, that I will not even notice that the radio in my rental car isn't actually tuned to a channel, but I'm driving around listening to it?
Specifically, who are these people? They didn't even take the time to turn the radio off; indecipherable static, at a clearly audible level, was good enough. I'm wondering if they even spoke to one another, most times. I'm wondering if it says more about our society, as it relates to our minds and our attention span. Probably not, but it's an intriguing phenomenon. You may have never imagined that people would regularly do this, but I'm sad to report that many people (probably unintentionally) engaged in such an activity. Who are they?
Lead Us, O Mongoloid
We don't mind where you take us
When we signed up for this, we loved our country
We still do
But we'll follow your heart to the end of the world and back
We'll bring the plunder of our great riches
All the people of the world will sing our songs
Lead us, O Mongoloid
Boy king with mandate and agenda
Don't ever stray from point, O Sir
Keep your enemies, both domestic and foreign, at bay
Still their tongues and poison their dissent
Lead us onward into battle
Let us slay your enemies
When we signed up for this, we loved our country
We still do
But we'll follow your commands; we'll walk into a towering inferno for your love
My mom misses me
I do not think of that
There is killing to do, O Mongoloid
And I love you, too
In case you haven't noticed (and I'm gathering you haven't), my updates have been sparse in this space for about the past week. I've been getting hacked like Shaq when he accidentally gets the ball with a 1 pt lead and 10 seconds left in a game. In other words, a lot. These looters and polluters are the most useless bastards in the world, generally stinking up the place by using scripts to rewrite all my indices across all my web content to point to Russian prescription drug sites. I DON'T CARE ABOUT IMPOTENT RUSSIAN COCKS! Leave me alone, you ass holes!
I realize I'm shouting into the wind. I just need some hacker-beating catharsis. I'm going to walk into Microsoft tomorrow and make an example out of a random Russian dev. He'll never see it coming:
It'll be great.
I realize I'm shouting into the wind. I just need some hacker-beating catharsis. I'm going to walk into Microsoft tomorrow and make an example out of a random Russian dev. He'll never see it coming:
Hot Adam Danger: Excuse me, can I buy some Cialis?
Random Commie: Da? What you say?
Hot Adam Danger: Oh, I thought since you're RUSSIAN and you're good with COMPUTERS you had some fucking ERECTILE drugs on you.
Random Commie: Excuse me? I am developer on Live Search. I think you mistake me for local oaf!
Hot Adam Danger: Wrong day, Commie. Wrong day. [hits Russian haxx0r in the privates with a discarded monitor cable]
Random Commie: ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
Hot Adam Danger: Nobody hacks The Dange. Send the message to all your commie friends.
Jessica Spano: In this age of glasnost, you can't say, "kick that commie's butt!"
Hot Adam Danger: Kick that commie's heinie!
It'll be great.
Holy smokes, kids. Look at old Fred Thompson, courtesy of Reuters:
Every time this guy articulates a sentence, his entire body jolts like he's jerkingly undulating in and out of a state of full rigor mortis. "I'm alive! I'm dead! I'm alive! I'm dead! I can't stop talking about 'down home American values!' I'm alive!"
I thought you had to be an attractive man to win the presidency in this day and age. You know, like women more or less decide the prezzinents because they (not you, you specific woman, if you're reading this) tend to vote with their engorged clitorii more than they vote with their heads or their pocketbooks. Someone find me that poll. Anyway, Fred Thompspoon is dead in the water if he can't stop photographing and videographing like a reanimated cadaver, with all the color and pallor of the walking embalmed. The fact that he sounds vaguely cranky can't help too much, neither.
Vote Corpse for Prez '08 fuck the world!
I thought you had to be an attractive man to win the presidency in this day and age. You know, like women more or less decide the prezzinents because they (not you, you specific woman, if you're reading this) tend to vote with their engorged clitorii more than they vote with their heads or their pocketbooks. Someone find me that poll. Anyway, Fred Thompspoon is dead in the water if he can't stop photographing and videographing like a reanimated cadaver, with all the color and pallor of the walking embalmed. The fact that he sounds vaguely cranky can't help too much, neither.
Vote Corpse for Prez '08 fuck the world!
Mr. Thomas: So, Brian, I'm guessing you understand why I've called this one-on-one meeting this morning.
Brian: No, I'm not certain. I saw the request in my email first thing this morning, and wondered why this couldn't wait until later in the day, but go ahead.
Mr. Thomas: Well, you see, it stems from yesterday afternoon. Would you take me back to yesterday afternoon, if you would?
Brian: Well... okay. Okay, what, specifically, did you have in mind?
Mr. Thomas: Yesterday in the parking garage, as you were leaving work.
Brian: Ohhhh. Alright, yeah. Mr. Banks almost hit my truck.
Mr. Thomas: [interrupting] and he claims you almost hit him. Do you care to explain what happened, as you remember it?
Brian: Well, his Jaguar came screaming out of Level 3, he ignored the stop sign, and I slammed on the brakes.
Mr. Thomas: Why were you going so fast?
Brian: I don't think I was, really.
Mr. Thomas: And after that? You see, Brian -- and this is the crux of my concern, as well as my calling of today's meeting -- Mr. Banks is quite upset.
Brian: Well...
Mr. Thomas: Let me finish. Mr. Banks feels he saw you mouth something at him which was beyond the pale.
Brian: I didn't recognize... it was, you know, the garage. I didn't know who it was, so it was nothing personal.
Mr. Thomas: Could you clarify, Brian? What was it you said, exactly?
Brian: I think I blurted something out.
Mr. Thomas: "Queer motherfucker?"
Brian: Oh! No, no... I mean, it was a Jaguar! I was remarking on the car.
Mr. Thomas: By looking Mr. Banks in the eye and calling him a "queer motherfucker?"
Brian: No. No! It's all a misunderstanding, see. I was saying, "quality manufacture."
Mr. Thomas: Really.
Brian: You know, a Jag is a quality vehicle.
Mr. Thomas: So Mr. Banks shouldn't be concerned that you would hurl an offensive, homophobic slur at one of our senior partners out of anger?
Brian: No chance. "Quality manufacture."
Mr. Thomas: And then you, and this is his characterization, snarled at him and shouted, "bitch."
Brian: "Bigtime." Like, "bigtime vehicle, there, Mr. B!"
Mr. Thomas: He said that you looked "furious," and that you seemed satisfied with your angry outburst.
Brian: That's jealousy on my part, really. He makes at least 3 times what I do, and I had no idea his car was so great, too.
Mr. Thomas: I see. [long pause] Well, he'd like you fired, in any case. You're fired.
Brian: THAT QUEER MOTHERFUCKING BITCH!!!!
Brian: No, I'm not certain. I saw the request in my email first thing this morning, and wondered why this couldn't wait until later in the day, but go ahead.
Mr. Thomas: Well, you see, it stems from yesterday afternoon. Would you take me back to yesterday afternoon, if you would?
Brian: Well... okay. Okay, what, specifically, did you have in mind?
Mr. Thomas: Yesterday in the parking garage, as you were leaving work.
Brian: Ohhhh. Alright, yeah. Mr. Banks almost hit my truck.
Mr. Thomas: [interrupting] and he claims you almost hit him. Do you care to explain what happened, as you remember it?
Brian: Well, his Jaguar came screaming out of Level 3, he ignored the stop sign, and I slammed on the brakes.
Mr. Thomas: Why were you going so fast?
Brian: I don't think I was, really.
Mr. Thomas: And after that? You see, Brian -- and this is the crux of my concern, as well as my calling of today's meeting -- Mr. Banks is quite upset.
Brian: Well...
Mr. Thomas: Let me finish. Mr. Banks feels he saw you mouth something at him which was beyond the pale.
Brian: I didn't recognize... it was, you know, the garage. I didn't know who it was, so it was nothing personal.
Mr. Thomas: Could you clarify, Brian? What was it you said, exactly?
Brian: I think I blurted something out.
Mr. Thomas: "Queer motherfucker?"
Brian: Oh! No, no... I mean, it was a Jaguar! I was remarking on the car.
Mr. Thomas: By looking Mr. Banks in the eye and calling him a "queer motherfucker?"
Brian: No. No! It's all a misunderstanding, see. I was saying, "quality manufacture."
Mr. Thomas: Really.
Brian: You know, a Jag is a quality vehicle.
Mr. Thomas: So Mr. Banks shouldn't be concerned that you would hurl an offensive, homophobic slur at one of our senior partners out of anger?
Brian: No chance. "Quality manufacture."
Mr. Thomas: And then you, and this is his characterization, snarled at him and shouted, "bitch."
Brian: "Bigtime." Like, "bigtime vehicle, there, Mr. B!"
Mr. Thomas: He said that you looked "furious," and that you seemed satisfied with your angry outburst.
Brian: That's jealousy on my part, really. He makes at least 3 times what I do, and I had no idea his car was so great, too.
Mr. Thomas: I see. [long pause] Well, he'd like you fired, in any case. You're fired.
Brian: THAT QUEER MOTHERFUCKING BITCH!!!!
