Spider vs. Cricket

You remember the DEADLY SPIDER my roommate adpoted? You do? Good.

Would you like to see a video of it sticking a cricket to the jar so as to immobilize it and then murder it with its deadly bite? You would? Oh, okay. Here:



Kinda neat, in a SUPER DEADLY WAY. I remain scared for my life.

Take That, John Galt

Charlottesville is a city of many bumper stickers. Be these stickers political, irreverent, or just plain silly, our World-Class City™ certainly loves to express itself on the posteriors of its vehicles.

Today I spotted this sticker on a car in Belmont. It's easily my new favorite, because riling Randians anywhere and everywhere is always okay by me.

{cross-posted at cVillain.com}

Would This Be Considered An Abbreviated Version of Hell?

After a carousing mid-harvest vineyard party involving a painful limbo competition, a well-informed tirade on the etymology of the Kiwi usage of "Ta," and me trying to teach a three hundred pound man with sausage fingers how to play mandolin chords, I stumbled home and went to bed. In my dreams, I woke up hungover, made oatmeal and coffee, and at work struggled through the first two hours, wondering why I felt the need to come in so early. Then, in reality, I woke up hungover, made outmeal and coffee, and at work struggled through the first two hours, wondering why I felt the need to come in so early.

Don't Ask, Don't Tell

I love [local coffeehouse of much repute]. I really do. They vet their applicants quite thoroughly, and, in general, I'm pleased with the results: always a fun coffee-getting experience.

Semi-colon-however-comma*, listening to their interview process, while sitting nearby, is somewhat wrenching at times. Seriously: I would guffaw at these two questions:

-Who is your hero?
-What's your astrological sign?

Then again, maybe guffawing is just what they're looking for.

___________
*actual phrase! used by my high-school AP English teacher! upon whom in part was based the character played by Drew Barrymore in Donnie Darko!

Bot, Bot, Botulism

I hurt my back today at the gym. (Yes. The gym. I know. Let us not talk about it.)

And I've been trying to write more over here, at the request of the dear departed lilith (who at some point construed my blogging as funny or insightful or something; no worries; I'm sure history will prove her wrong).

So I've been getting light on content over on this here weblog. My apologies, lovely readers. But I'm sore! And busy! And, apparently, whiny!

In lieu of actual content, here's a text-message exchange from today that made me laugh, featuring sometime commenter blinktmb:

blinktmb: Was it you who told me about someone you know getting botchulism [sic]?
[I think she was thinking of this comment thread, which I had mentioned.]
Me: No why?
blinktmb: Dammit. Cant you get it from garlic or oil sitting out?
Me: Garlic in oil for an extended time.
blinktmb:I wonder if it has to be a ton of garlic, or if even a tiny piece of oil could do it
Me: Trying to make botulism?
blinktmb: Haha oh god, im still laughing. [boyfriend] is looking at me like im crazy

With inspiration from this new and hilarious site.

An Open Letter From Teddy to Mr. Feeble

Mr Feeble,
I write you this letter to thank you for your assistance in the start of my new love-drenched, very non-casual sex life. It began, as most good stories do, in the kitchen, when Ryan was cooking his usual rabbit food and Yuri, the Slovakian, was asking Ryan about his T-shirt.

"What is this squad you prefer is?" Yuri said.

"Oh, no, no, no, my Eastern European friend," Ryan replied. "You are mistaken. This FC symbol on my shirt does not mean Football Club. It means Flip Cup."

"And what is this flip cup you prefer is?"

With that, Ryan told the great story of his friend Mr. Feeble, who, in 2006, was Grandmaster Champion of the Great American Flip Cup Championship, held, obviously, in Cleveland, Ohio, because where else? As you know, Ryan can sometimes tell a story very commonplace, no big deal, and end the thing before it even began. Other times, however, he gets his hands into it, raises his voice, uses local children and produce as props, and weaves hour long descriptions of bars and babies and bathrooms. This was one of the grand stories, and, by the time it was over, the entire city of Cromwell was standing in the kitchen, listening, awestruck, pumped up beyond understanding, wanting nothing more than to compete in our very own FC Tournament. And thus it began: The International Beerfest of Bannockburn, New Zealand.

The Germans fared well, with their flare for strange guttoral shit-talking and last minute, shady backpacker additions to their team. The Georgians (Republic of) showed an amazing propensity for speed ping-pong and pre-festivities bread making. The Kiwis (my team; Debs and I) won the cigarette rolling competition, hands down, but barely placed in anything else, as we had trouble taking our eyes off each other. The Scots took the chugging and the horseshoes and the nobody-can-understand-anything-you-say competitions. The Canadians spent too much of their time making clear their distinctions from the Americans, and not enough time drinking. The Americans themselves excelled in nothing other than coming up with game after game for everybody to play. The French won a large trophy for their complete refusal to play. The British (a team that included Ryan, as James, captian of team Brittain, needed a player and declared Ryan the least American American present) passed out halfway through, after running around and clawing at bird callers somewhere in the vineyard. And it was the Israelis who won, mostly based on their ability to chug a beer without ever lifting the glass off the table.

But the real winner was Debs and I, as we found, sometime during the night, that each of us was much more attractive than the other had thought. And with a warm bed in my tent, well, Mr. Feeble, I know I don't have to go on any further. Tommorow we're going to see Warbirds Over Wanaka, and I'm going to pack a lunch for my new lady. It is a fun game, this Flip Cup of yours, but what Debs and I have goes way beyond fun, and for that I wanted to thank you.

Cheers,
Teddy

Work Time (FNZVBPN7)

Bossman: Ryan, did you get a temperature for tank Ra*?
Ryan: Twenty-nine point five.
Bossman: Twenty-nine?
Ryan: Twenty-nine point five.
Bossman: Celsius?
Ryan: Celsius.
Bossman: How far into the cap is that?
Ryan: About three feet.
Bossman: You reached your hand three feet into the tank?
Ryan: No, I used this.
Bossman: For how long did you keep the thermometer submerged?
Ryan: Twenty seconds.
Bossman: And what were you thinking about while you did this?
Ryan: I was thinking I wonder what the temperature of this tank will be.
Bossman: Did you have any preconceived notions about this tank or its temperature?
Ryan: The fruit was hot, so . . .
Bossman: Do you think it's possible that part of your mind wanted tank Ra to be twenty-nine degrees celcius?
Ryan: Twenty-nine point five, and no.


*Of note: in New Zealand, we name all our wine tanks after dead or dying Gods.

Class

Did I just see a twenty-year-old kid filling the gas tank on his Hummer?

I did.

Was his stiff-brimmed hat cocked to the side?

It was.

Was he wearing a T-shirt that said "Republicans Have More Money"?

He was.

Was he a big bag of douche?

It would appear so, yes.

Late to the Arty Party

Allison has a blog? Yep. She sure does. (No, I'm not showing you any of her amazing art. Go look for yourselves, lazy boneses.)

"In the mean time, we do what we do best"

That's a quotation from the A-Team, which I've been watching online at hulu. I was excited at first, but two episodes in the show is so unbearably formulaic, I had stop my Season One run.

One positive development of watching, however, was the admiration for Hannibal's catch phrase, "I love it when a plan comes together," which led me to the decision last night that everyone really ought to have a catch phrase. I ran my proposed catch phrase ("we're not in Kansas anymore") by my fellow dinner-goers last night, and they were understandably underwhelmed. I need something less worn-out.

(I've been signing off e-mails today with "what say you?" which has some catch phrase potential. We'll just have to see.)

Oh, and what's that? There's a forthcoming A-Team movie, starring Woody Harrelson and Ice Cube? Why, yes, there is.

Zoning Out

At one of this weekend's gigs:

Us: Oh, yeah, if it's too loud just let us know.

Club owner: Well, it's zoned industrial, so noise isn't a problem.

Us: Oh, okay. But I noticed there's a house next door.

Club owner: Oh, yeah, that's a big problem. That's a crack house. Big crack scene. When they finally shut that down, it'll be the end of an era.

Us: ...

Sweet!

Wherein different burritos are concurrent

It is a running joke among my friends that I eat a burrito at every meal. This joke has some basis in fact, as I do find burritos to be an excellent vehicle for conveying a well-balanced meal: protein, fresh vegetables, some carbohydrates, and most importantly, deliciousness.

And my great affinity for burritos and the consumption thereof recently inspired my friend Boobers to give me this fine T-shirt, which, as you can see, expresses quite concisely a universal truth.

Which brings me to today, when, donning said T-shirt, I found myself consuming this:



And I felt compelled to report this temporary alignment of greatness with you, the internet.

Another Proud Day for this Weblog

Always doing our part to elevate the tone of the internets, we're the #1 search result here.

FNZVBPN6

So I came to New Zealand thinking there would be all these great exotic foods that I had never heard of with wierd Maori names that translated to things like "long white river of puffy pastry" and "endless spice of the sky." I was thinking, obviously, that kiwis were both fruits and birds, and that I could eat both of them, possibly even together in "get a taste of NZ" platter. But I was wrong. Nobody eats Kiwis (the birds) and kiwis (the fruits) are just like anywhere else, maybe a little more concentrated. Most people have told me that New Zealand is a steak and potatoe / fish and chips country (Right-o, mate), which it's not like I've never had a steak before.

So I've been expanding my seafood horizons, with all kinds of new fish names like hoki and yodi and guguah (Aye, hoki up from Nelson, best fish in the world. No joke, mate. In the world. Best fish.). But the most interesting new food?



Yes, the vegemite. A staple here. Brains are rocked when they learn that Ryan has never had vegemite before. It's like when they learn that the reason I have trouble driving stick shift here is because everything's opposite, or when they learn that, to me, Z is pronounced Zee, and not Zed. Brains are rocked. Worlds are unhinged and forever changed. It is the least I can do.

Death in a Jar

I came home from work to find this jar on the dining-room table. Oh, how nice, I thought to myself. Someone's caught some lovely outdoor creature, perhaps a praying mantis, and we can observe it for a little while before setting it free to live out its days in the wild.

"What's in the jar?" I ask my roommate dijonbray.

"A black widow spider. Hambone [another roommate] found it by the shed.""

Which is followed by me freaking out that the cats are going to knock over the jar in the night, and the spider is going to KILL US ALL OHMIGOD. Which is why everyone else in the house thinks I'm being overly paranoid

But just look at the red spot:


The mark of death! We're all doomed! Crap!

If this is my last blogpost ever—if my brief mortal trudge on this wet speck of dust is made even briefer by the toxic fangs of a vicious arachnid—I want you to know that I love you all. (Except you, Hambone. Way to get us all killed.)

<em>Emphasis</em>

eekbeat and I had the pleasure of joining will and BR tonight for dinner in Richmond. The official report: huzzah! We had a blast, and the sneaky BR-will conspiracy squad even managed to pay the tab on a purported mission to the bathroom. (Thanks again!)

Among the weighty and important subjects that crossed our conversational plates was, of course, unfogged.

I noticed that will seems to pronounce it UN-fogged, but I have always said un-FOGged (kind of dropping off at the end*). Of course, I'd never be one to norm anyone's pronunciation, but I'm curious what other people say, since it's not really a common word outside the keyb0ard-addicted many who utter its syllables.

Masses: what say you?

*eekbeat, teo, et. al.: don't cut me if this linguistic phenomenon has a name that I don't know of; rather, share!

Doggone Mind Gone Dog

My brother has sent along a photo of the puppy he just adopted. I would normally celebrate the union of an animal in-need with a human who can provide a good home. However, the fact that his photo message included the word "woobie" leads me to question the state of his mental fitness. I suspect he's no longer suitable to be the primary caregiver for this puppy, what with the whole talking gibberish thing.

UPDATE: Low-res crappy camera-phone photo added to appease the Bitch.

Not Exactly the Office Water Cooler

This? Is insane:

In a lawsuit filed in January, former Prosper Inc. employee Chad Hudgens accused his former boss, Joshua Christopherson, of waterboarding him in May 2007 while instructing other employees to hold him down. Prosper does not dispute that the incident took place, but said it was voluntary and that Hudgens was fully aware of what the exercise would entail when he volunteered for it.

The lawsuit also alleges that Christopherson would remove his team's chairs if it went a day with no sales and said he planned to reinstate a discontinued practice of drawing mustaches on employees' faces with permanent marker if they made negative comments in the office.

I'm not gonna say my job is all sundrops and rainbows, but fuck, this place just sounds batshit nuts.

[via the print version of this]

It's too late to parodize

I hadn't actually watched the infamous SNL skit knocking the fawning press coverage of Obama. But I finally did, and what struck me most is how hard it is to do a parody of Obama, compared with Clinton or the media, both of whom are thoroughly skewered in the piece. I guess the piece plays favorably for HRC, which explains why they've been shopping it out to the press left and right. But my walk-away is: hmph; SNL can't really make fun of Obama very convincingly at all.

Barry O.: Objectively Good for Dillon, Texas

Hey, did you notice that new will.i.am Obama video features two actors from Friday Night Lights? Clearly, this is a dog whistle to FNL fans, indicating that an Obama victory will translate to new episodes of the show and a contract renewal for five more seasons.

Yes. We. Can.

The Rules

[waiting around before our CD-release party; backstory: Boobers had been in the hospital that afternoon with flu symptoms]

Chico: What're you eating?
Me: Spring rolls. With a peanut sauce. Don't tell Boobers [he's allergic to peanuts].
Chico: Yeah, seriously. We should definitely try to keep it to one band member visiting the hospital per-band per-day.
Me: You mean as a universal rule? Like, all bands everywhere should strive to have no more than one member per-day in the hospital?
Chico: Yeah. Totally.
Me: But what if it's, like, a band...I dunno. Who's a band you really don't li—
Chico: Hoobastank.
Me: Okay, Hoobastank. So, like, what if they all got beaten up and had to go to the hospital, all of them?
Chico: I think it's gotta be a rule for pre-existing conditions.
Me: Right, but aren't the members of Hoobastank always already being assholes by being members of Hoobastank? That's a pre-existing condition.
Chico: You got me there, Stanley. You got me there.