Convincing the world I’m a loser since 1985.
I wrote myself a note the other day. My distinctly unique handwriting made it so beautiful that it’s almost a work of art. I considered framing it, until today when I attempted to read it. I’m still wondering what all those cryptic symbols are supposed to mean. (Note to self: Don’t write notes to yourself.) I wonder if the museum of modern art is open for submission?
Once upon a time
In a land far away
There lived a young man
Whose world was dull and greyHis face was often sad
His mind was much confused
Cuz the only color he had
Was a certain shade of bluesHe tried on his own
To color in the lines
But it couldn’t match the artistry
That true love definesHe knew he needed something
To add that certain hue
When a rainbow splash of color
Suddenly came into viewShe was a pleasing sight
A diamond in the rough
But it was the beauty inside her
That made him sure enoughThey shared precious moments
As they grew ever closer
And every minute she gave him
He remembered why he chose herSo then one beautiful evening
As the sun gleamed through the leaves
He found the courage to pull out
The plan stuck up his sleevesHe said, I love you
Donita Marie
I just have one question
Will you marry me?
This is how I proposed to the girl I’m now proud to call my fiance. She said yes, we stared at each other, we smiled, we laughed, we hugged, and I finished the story:
Their years were filled with love
Their days were filled with laughter
Their hearts could fly like doves
As they lived happily ever after
I was just looking at the definition of the word “know.” Listed among the synonyms were “screw,” “hump,” and “bang.” Funny, but I always thought the definition of know was more something on the order of “to understand something.” I wouldn’t have guessed it to mean the same as a piece of attachment hardware, a camel’s back, or the sound a gun makes. They really don’t make dictionaries like they used to.
I work for a music recording company, so I hear technical jargon all the time. Not just the usual stuff like hard drive and RAM, I hear some pretty serious stuff like DMX-4 and 24-80’s and all kinds of stuff with numbers and letters. And that’s just the beginning.
Of course, with myself being a graphic designer, I have my own jargon. But I try to refrain from using it, because the last time I did somebody thought I called them a dingbat.
Proof that I’m a robot, or at least a cyborg (half robot):
1. I show no emotions or feelings
2. I’m impervious to extreme heat and cold
3. I’ve never broken a bone
4. I never sleep. I only recharge
5. I was programed to obey all commands from one particular person
6. I downloaded the Cold virus
7. I think really slow, revealing that my processor and RAM need an upgrade
8. I can operate on very little food, although I can consume large quantities on demand
9. I follow traffic laws to a capital T
10. I have monocular vision, which means the drivers for the CCD chips in my eyes are probably outdated
11. I can beat any human in a staring contest
12. I don’t get bored
13. I don’t age as fast as real people, which explains why I look like I’m 16 when I’m 20
It turns out artificial intelligence isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Let me tell you from experience, robots will never be smart enough to take over the world. Believe me, I’ve tried.
Every country needs to have their own currency, and while I don’t quite have my own country (yet) that doesn’t mean I can’t have my own currency. Not owning a country never stopped Monopoly or Chuck E Cheese from creating a money system. My aim is to put a new meaning to the term “currency conversion.” I know people might not be too quick to give up their dollars and euros, but I hope that the masses will see the logic in my system and slowly convert to Ramens.
While coming just short of broke while paying the rent on my apartment, I inevitably learned the value of Ramen noodles. When faced with the choice between a bag of chips or a month’s worth of noodles, I quickly determined that eating to live is much more economical than living to eat. I also discovered that Ramen is one of the only diets where you can pretty much live off of the nickels you find on the ground. So I started using Ramens to gauge how much things are worth. For example, a pack of gum could be worth roughly 4 Ramens. Two scoops of ice cream at Culver’s is worth about 25 Ramens. When we move on to more expensive items like, say, a car, the numbers start getting bigger. A typical small car can cost upwards of 100,000 Ramens. So I created a larger unit of Ramens equal to a year’s worth of noodles. Using Ramen Years, that same car would cost about 760 Ramen Years.
If everyone converted to my currency, it would be so much simpler for everyone. And unlike paper bills, the money would actually be worth something. Maybe if I save up enough Ramens I could finally buy myself that country I’ve been wanting.
Update 8/23/2016: It’s happening!
The best part of eating at Pizza Hut has always been the little peppermints you get after the meal. The sweet, round candies with an angelic flavor that leaves a fresh taste in your mouth. But the worst decision Pizza Hut has ever made was a while ago when they decided to switch out the peppermints with their wicked, evil twin, cinnamints. While virtually identical to peppermints, innocent and attractive on the outside, on the inside they are really strong and bitter. What’s even worse is that they have a thin, deceitful layer of peppermint to fool people into thinking that they’ve got the real thing. But as soon as the sugar-coated lie wears off and exposes the filth underneath, they see the malicious treat for what it really is and are immediately turned away. The once happy customer then leaves the restaurant unsatisfied and with a bad taste in their mouth.
We can’t let this go on. We must band together and fight the oppression of the cinnamints. Sign the petition and make a difference. Cinnamon mint is an oxymoron. Bring back the peppermints!
My girlfriend compliments me all the time. Somehow she just has a way of making me feel loved.
“The only reason people come over to your house is because of your tv.”
“Your eyes look like a baby girl ant’s eyes.”
“Eww, your calf muscles are kind of deformed.”
“You’re not very good at batting or fielding, but you’re pretty good at running.”
“I like your hair…but you need a haircut.”
“Your tongue is fat.”
“You have huge bags under your eyes.”
“I hope you’re not charging them much for taking their wedding pictures.”
Having dual monitors is pretty sweet, but if you don’t have the cables to plug them into your computer you don’t really get the full effect. So I ordered a couple cables online and as soon as they arrived I plugged in the first one and was excited to hear the dramatic “phfip” sound when it lit up. I plugged in the second one and waited for the phfip. And I waited a little longer. When I finally realized that there wasn’t going to be a phfip, and after testing the cable with different configurations, I determined that it was a faulty cable.
The company gladly sent me a replacement cable, but again no phfip (that sounds like some kind of bad word, now that I think about it). With two out of three cables not working, I decided to call the company to see what was up. I told the operator that I was having a problem with a cable. I’m still not sure what language he was speaking, but he transferred me to this other guy who then transferred me to another guy. If I didn’t know any better I would have thought I was the victim of some Arabian terrorist group or something. So the last guy I talked to, hereafter referred to as the “cable guy” (no pun intended) started getting all defensive when I told him that I had two faulty cables. He said something about how they couldn’t afford to send me any more replacements and there’s no way the cables could be defective. Then he said in a perfect Arab accent, “I bet you a hunnerd dollar dat it’s not de cable.”
I would have laughed in his face and took him up on his offer, but I didn’t really feel like being tortured by an Arabian terrorist cable guy.
I always wanted to be famous, but I never thought it would hit me quite this hard. As I walked into the hospital, I thought I would have some fun with the receptionist, so I was like, “Um…I kind of…got hit by a car.” I was sort of expecting the usual wide-eyed, dropped-jaw response, but instead what I got was, “Hey, you’re the guy that got hit by that midget car in the parade, aren’t you?” Apparently news travels faster than a guy limping to the hospital.
Update: 6-15-06
“What really happened”
I was watching the Butterfest parade, and when the guys driving the little midget cars came by I was like, “ooo, I want one!” Little did I know that one would indeed end up in my lap.
Apparently the steering column broke, pointing the car full speed in my direction. I was left with little more than a bruised foot, but you shoulda seen the divot he left in the ground. The head dude of the organization called me later to make sure that I was okay. He was like, “Those things are bound to happen,” and he didn’t even offer to pay for my x-ray.
In baseball, if somebody gets hit by the ball they get to keep the ball. The way I see it, that car should be mine.