Magnified to uncomfortable proportions

I use vtext.com to send text messages to my girlfriend because punching letters into a phone makes me feel like an asshole.

Those familiar with vtext.com will know that in the lower right-hand part of the page there's an image of a woman having way too much fun at a text messaging website. Using the right click -> zoom trick with Flash, I was able to make the website look much creepier.


(as always, click for a larger view)

Her joy is MAGNIFIED to UNCOMFORTABLE PROPORTIONS.

(Turning in rent checks, Heidelberging it up.)

I think if you want people to think your product is going to make their lives better, stop showing them smiling and laughing while using it. Just show them having loud orgasms. An example:

A man pours a glass of orange juice. He drinks the orange juice. then spits it out and yelps, clutching the breakfast table. He falls to the ground, shaking as a large stain forms on his pajama pants.
A deep voice says, "Tropicana: You'll have an orgasm."

This works for other stuff, too.

A woman is stepping into a shoe when she falls on her side and starts screaming with pleasure.
"Shoes: Wear them, and you'll have orgasms."

One more, then I'm done.

A man looks up and says, "Hey, is that a red balloo- OH GOD I JUST CAME IN MY PANTS."
"Balloons: They'll give you an org-AAAGH I JUST THOUGHT OF ONE AND MESSED MYSELF."

That balloon commercial is based on a true story.

Dear coworkers, take my shifts, wear my shirts

I sent this email to my coworkers in an attempt to get them to pick up sub shifts for me:

Hey consultants and rovers,

I'm going to Colorado from July 5th to July 12 to win a breakdancing competition, which will help save an orphanage, a bird sanctuary, and a retirement center from being bulldozed and turned into a strip mall by a major corporation (read: "going to a family reunion"). That leads me to this pitch:

Need extra money this summer? Yearning to work for the greater computing good? Enjoy answering software and stapler-related questions and/or driving a sweet white van with AM/FM radio? I have the solution for you!

C 1 A L I S T A B L E T S!


Er, I mean, Angell and Roving sub shifts! Who wants 'em? (The answer is "awesome people")

(list of available shifts)

All awesome people who pick up my Angell shifts get to wear my Henry/Hack nametag (even if you're a girl!). Rovers typically don't wear nametags, so if you want to wear some of my stuff during my sub shifts, come over to my house and you can borrow a shirt or something.

Big thanks to those of you who can help out.

Henry Birdseye
Begging at your feet

(work.)

Nobody's picked up any shifts yet, but on the upside I sold three boxes of Cialis tablets and a few replica wristwatches. If you don't get that joke, you probably have a good spam filter set up. Good for you.

The printer is frisky, needs sex

Yesterday a printer in the dental school was acting up hardcore so I had to put a call in to get it fixed remotely. While I was waiting for things to get fixed, a service employee walked toward the printer, looked at it like it was a combination of calculus and magic, furrowed his brow, and walked back to his computer.

The guy was older and obviously didn't 'get' computers, so I tried to explain to him what was happening. When I talk to non-computer people, I end up saying stupid things. Case in point:
'We're having some problems. The printer's being frisky right now.'

Frisky was not the right word. That is not how the word 'frisky' is used. Frisky does not mean 'not working.'

I pretty much said, 'The printer is horny right now. It would print your documents, but it wants me to have sex with it. It'll be working soon. You know, after the sex.

(Angell for 16 hours. seriously.)

During my 16-hour workday, I:
Ruined a Facebook group so that it said "Happy Birthday" to a friend (I will post this later)
Helped a platonic lady friend pick out the right man on Craigslist
Lent out the dinosaur pen multiple times, even if it doesn't have a swastika on it
Forgot everything else I did during 16 hours of "work"

If your boss has the address to your blog, you probably shouldn't refer to what you do as "working." The quotation marks, though accurate sometimes, aren't helping.

The WMD of Facebook terrorism

I am the administrator of a Facebook group containing over 3,000 people in it. I believe it is the most popular Facebook group at the University of Michigan.

At any time I can turn it into a Facebook group about having a really bad poop fetish.

You think about that, and you think about what Jesus would do.

But Jesus wasn't on Facebook, so he's not an acceptable role model here. Be ready, potential poop lovers.

(work, 8-6.)

"I Thought That Guy Who Plays the Harmonica By the Ugli Was Homeless Until I Found Out He's a Prof." has 3348 members other than myself. Every one of these people could end up looking like any of the following:

• foot fetishist
• communist
• person who is sexually aroused by various animals
• fan of the TV show Perfect Strangers
• knight of the Ku Klux Klan
• eater of toenails
• someone who enjoys dressing up like Batman, but only the top half, so they're still wearing the cape, mask, and utility belt but everyone can still see their genitals
• horny housewife

The cyber-fates of all 3348 people in this group are in my hands. Oh, and the creator of the group rejoined, so he's an admin now, too. He'd probably reset the group if I changed it to something he didn't like, so I need to find out if he likes Perfect Strangers or dressing up like No-Pants Batman.

Ugly women use leaf blowers

I think that, with women, there's a positive correlation between how ugly you are and how often you use a leaf blower.

Let me explain. Yesterday I was walking to work and I saw a woman operating a leaf blower. 'That's odd,' I thought, 'I've never seen a woman operating a leaf blower before.' Then I took a closer look and it all made sense. This woman had wicked Nightmare Face.

Now I feel like I should backpedal because I don't know if any of my lady friends have leaf blown before. I may have just made a few ladies sad for leaf blowing, but I don't have the time needed to just ask everyone beforehand, ya know?

That'd take too much time. If you blow leaves, chances are you're not attractive. Sorry, leaf-blowin' ladies.

(12 hours o' work.)

I think if women want to seduce men by doing labor, they should stick to washing cars and dressing up like French maids.

One time I went to a bikini car wash and hoo boy, let me tell you, those women did a terrible job. They just rubbed their soapy breasts against my windshield while I sat inside my car thinking Come ON, I'm late for dinner. Use a sponge, already! Oh Christ, keep your bathing suit on and just wash my car!

Needless to say, ever since then I've stayed home and washed my own car in a bikini. Saves money and gives me something to talk about with the neighbors.

Ointment is not sexy

Did you know that if you use the word 'ointment' on a first date that your odds of getting a second date can be reduced by up to 70%?

'Ointment' is one of the unsexiest words in the English language. Repeated use of the word 'ointment' can lead to social isolation, erectile dysfunction, and uncomfortable looks from people within earshot.

'Ointment' also makes a great safe word. Keep that in mind when negotiating a safe word with your leather-clad loved one.

(Work.)

A lady friend IMed me and said this:
"is that true? or only in the date situation? because I have used that word before and I still have a lot of sex."

I'm pretty sure you can use the word in casual, nonsexual conversation. For example, you could say "ointment" around your boss and not worry about whether or not your significant other is going to have sex with you later. However, you shouldn't say the word "ointment" around your boss if you plan on having sex with him or her.

I think if I were engaging in kinky S&M action, words like "ointment" and "eczema" are a great way to take you out of that butt-spanking mentality and back into a world where your skin isn't perfect, and neither is your life.

You're not perfect, and you will know that by the sound of "ointment."

Guy doesn't know computers

This weekend I was telling another guy about how being in IT makes you a hateful person because people are too goddamn stupid to learn basic computer skills. But then the other guy didn't nod so I had to backtrack a little.

'Working in IT makes you hate people. Why did I go to work today? Oh, because that bitch can't figure out how to print double-sided.'

(guy doesn't nod)

'...and that's okay because not everyone understands things like printers and clicking stuff. Not everyone knows what a Google is. Would you like to borrow my abacus, Guy Who Obviously Doesn't Understand Computers?'

Needless to say, I still hate people.

(Work!)

Apparently the guy was from 6th century China, too, because I offered him a goddamn abacus in that story.

Sunlight worms on your shoulder

When we sub out shifts for work we send emails to our coworkers to give them a heads up. Here's one I wrote tonight:
Did you know that at 7:30 every Friday morning all the birds are singing? And the squirrels will come up to you and eat food right out of your hand. Beams of golden sunlight trickle down from the heavens and lay eggs in your hair, then little sunlight worms hatch from the eggs and perch on your shoulder and sing you happy songs.

"It's Friday morning and everyone's glad /
Nobody's angry or miffed! /
Sunlight worms on your shoulder and that is rad /
So pick up Henry's sub shift!"

I have an Angell shift open this Friday from 7:30am to 9:30am. Hopefully just now you read that message and got so confused that you accidentally took that shift and gave me a foot massage.

...Please?

(bed.)

Nothing drives a point home like an ABAB rhyme scheme.

An inappropriate interracial dating club

Facebook recently told me that a friend of mine got a girlfriend. I was very glad to hear that he'd finally found a woman worthy of his wit, charm, and genitals.

And when I noticed that she was African American, I felt the need to share in his joy by messaging him with, 'Congrats, buddy! My first girlfriend was half black! We should start a club!'

But no, I won't say that, because I can't think of a good name for the 'We have formerly or are currently dating women that are of at least 50% African American heritage' club.

Plus, that's kinda racist.

(Food in the basement!)

Wave after wave of loving fathers

Today I was playing Time Crisis 3, a popular arcade murder simulation, and I got to a level where I was on a train that was surely going to fall down a cliff. What struck me as odd here is that the bad guys kept attacking me even though we were all about to die. I thought 'Why wouldn't they try to escape? They should be running with me, not shooting at me.'

This is how I explained it to myself: 'They have a deal with the Head Bad Guy that says that after they die, their families will be taken care of. If they stop fighting, their families get nothing.'

And while the fact that I thought of that explanation so quickly is disturbing on its own, the more disturbing idea is that all the bad guys have families.

Basically when I play Time Crisis 3 I'm just ruining families by shooting wave after wave of loving fathers.

(Charley's.)

Driving my car's corpse home

Right now I'm walking to the repair shop to pick up my dead '92 Crown Victoria.

She was a good car when she wasn't being a piece of shit. She got me where I needed to, provided I didn't mind smelling mold the whole way there while looking through a cracked windshield.

Now I'm off to pick her up, climb inside her dead body, and drive her home in what turned out to be a more complicated metaphor than I'd anticipated.

(Dead car.)

I'm not sure what to do with a dead car. Right now my options are to give my car to some charity organization that feeds broken cars to needy children OR sell it to the repair shop owner's brother so he can put it in a destruction derby. Seriously.

I hope that after I die, nobody reanimates my corpse and makes it fight other corpses in an arena. But then again, you can't always get what you want. If zombie combat is in my lifeless body's future, so be it.

The Teat of Ignorance

I work at a job that exists solely because people are ignorant. If people started googling their questions instead of blaming all their computer problems on ghosts then I would be out of a job.

Every morning I can wake up and ask myself, 'Hey, do people still suck at computers? Yes? Then I shall continue to suckle from the Teat of Ignorance.' And as long as the teat of ignorance secretes paychecks, count me in.

Whenever I answer questions for people, I know that little by little I'm making the IT department less important. That's why from now on I'm lying to users. 'Oh, you want to scan a document? Here, let me call my wizard friend and he'll tell me which spell to use. You go off and open Photoshop and I'll get back to you. By the way, do you have any holy water? There's a ghost in your computer that only I can get rid of.'

(bed.)

Check out this article:
"97 percent of IT professionals feel traumatized by their daily work. Indeed, 80 percent of them get tense just thinking about going to the office."

I wouldn't say my situation's that bad, but then again, I'm not an IT professional. However, I'm still working in the IT department, so I'm still dealing with people who shouldn't be using computers: women, old people, uh...um....actually, I think that covers it.

Then again, I use the internet. If you're a regular internet user there's a good chance that you look down on people dumber than you. Coincidentally, this is also what happens when you work IT.

Work IT, baby, yeah.

Hiding garbage in a Blue Cab

Anybody here ever call the Ann Arbor Blue Cab? Because you should never, ever call Ann Arbor Blue Cab.

I was going from the train station to work and I had to get there within 45 minutes. So I call them, they say they'll be there in 15, then in about 45 minutes they show up and a guy just comes out and says 'hey.'

He may as well have said, 'Hey, you call a blue cab? 'Cause we didn't take down your name or phone number, so we basically have no way to identify you, so yeah, get in.'

As I'm riding in his hoopty I realized I had no way to get revenge on this guy for making me late to work. I couldn't refuse to tip him because that's directly mean and I was already late so calling in and complaining would just make me later, so I decided the only thing I could do would be to hide garbage in his car.

Unfortunately, I'd used a trash can earlier, so my stockpile of pocket garbage was depleted. But from now on, I'm carrying garbage with me to punish people I don't like but have to deal with anyway.

(nap.)

On my way out of the Blue Cab, I tried to squeeze out a fart. Any cab driver who stores my luggage in a dirty trunk lined with blankets deserves to smell poop air for a few seconds to a couple minutes, depending on what I ate.

I doubt people would make the connection between the strategically hidden garbage and their crappy service. Bad waitresses will get a fair tip, but I'm taking all the sugar packets I can fit in my pockets and then hiding gum wrappers in the ketchup bottle. That way, the next group of people to sit at that table will be treated to a small pile of Bazooka Joe comics on their french fries and that bitch waitress well get a bad tip from someone other than me.

One more ruined Facebook group

I ruined another Facebook group.

I think this speaks for itself:

(click the image for the full size version)

K, that's all, I'm late for work. I hope you're all happy that I'm almost late for work every morning because of these goddamn things.

(work.)

I put a lot of work into that graphic. First I had to do a Google image search for "owl sex", then I had to search for "kid jail", then finally "bee." Five minutes in Photoshop and voila! Owls having sex over a kid in jail over a bee. And I did this at work, so I technically got paid to make everyone in that group look like an owl-banging, kidnapping, bee eater.

Volcano diarrhea and the first chat room

Today, while riding a train back from Chicago, I ate a microwave cheeseburger from the cafe car.

The microwave cheeseburger is one of those inventions that probably seemed really clever at first.

'I've found a way to make a cheeseburger hot and ready to eat in less than two minutes! I'll sell this idea and get rich!'

Then he'd actually eat the microwave cheeseburger and, an hour later, he'd poop lava while muttering, 'What have I done? I just wanted to help mankind, not give it volcano diarrhea.'

Bastard cost 5 dollars, too.

(bed.)

The same process of well intentions and deep regret happened with many other inventions. Albert Einstein talked about splitting atoms or whatever, then they made a bomb and he was sad. Scott Chatroom, inventor of the chat room, at first thought, "People can finally meet on the internet and discuss things intellectually!" then soon people were swapping pornography and calling each other fags.

The very first chat room conversation went like this:
MeInventedChatRooms has joined the first chat room
Intern8235 has joined the first chat room
MeInventedChatRooms: Hello? Is this working? Wow, after years of work, here we are!
Intern8235: hay scott, ya wuts ^?
MeInventedChatRooms: Wow, this is incredible!
Intern8235: wutevr. u want porn? s2r
MeInventedChatRooms: I'm afraid I don't understand, intern.
sK8RbOiDooD182 has joined the first chat room
sK8RbOiDooD182: Wut up? U got porn? press 555
Intern8235: 555
MeInventedChatRooms: How did you get in here, sk8rboi? Hello? What's happening?
SLAYERdeathSTAB has joined the first chat room
SLAYERdeathSTAB: u guys r fags
Intern8235: fuk u homo
MeInventedChatRooms: Anybody want to talk about photosynthesis?
sK8RbOiDooD182: I did ur mom fag
SLAYERdeathSTAB has left the first chat room
sK8RbOiDooD182 has left the first chat room
Intern8235 has left the first chat room
MeInventedChatRooms: Um, can I uninvent this?
MeInventedChatRooms has left the first chat room

Scott Chatroom went with the screen name "MeInventedChatRooms" because "IInventedChatRooms" repeats the I's too soon and it looks confusing. "MeInvented" is obviously the next logical option.

Starting sentences with "I'm from New York"

I think if you mention that you're from New York more than three times in a short conversation, you are an asshole.

Actually, saying you're from anywhere too much makes you an asshole, but more often than not New York is the place mentioned most.

Examples from tonight:
'I'm from New York, so I'm not used to smoke in bars.'
'I'm from New York, so I think everyone here is being snooty.'
'I'm from New York. New York New York New York.'

Even worse was this lady was from the state, not the city, but by saying 'I'm from New York' she can try to cling to the city's glory even if she lives in the less awesome state.

Anyway, after this lady talked about New York I forced her to eat a hammer.

(bed.)

What do conversations with these people sound like when they're actually in New York? "Well, I'm from here, so... fuck yeah I like mustard." I don't think you need to provide a context when you're discussing mundane shit. None of my mustard conversations have involved geographical backgrounds.

Spoiled little brat facing corruption charges

My girlfriend just started a job working for a lawyer. The other night I was on the phone with her when she said, 'Ah crap, my boss is on TV.'

Ah crap?! Your boss is a TV star and all you can say is 'ah crap'? Fuck, if my boss were a TV star I'd, um.... I'd... fuckin' wonder why he's still my boss. Yeah.

'No, this isn't good. They're talking about him in this corruption trial.'

Oh man, girlfriend, you surely have made a mistake! I told her she should get legal advice on the issue, just...not from him.

'Hey, you're going to prison, should I still work for you or are you going to ruin my life the way you ruined everybody else's?' That's a hard question to ask your boss.

Hey, maybe the next away message will be good. I'm running late.

(Work.)

Today Amy told me that her boss didn't like the way her presentation went, and I shrugged it off. I can't help but picture her as the adult and him as the spoiled little brat facing corruption charges. Why should she care what he thinks? She's not on trial.

Suburban fear SUV and the invention of landscaping

Last night I drove home to Walled Lake to pick up some clothes, and holy balls, Suburbia is ridiculous.

I think while I left all my neighbors bought the biggest cars they could find. Why? I'm guessing because they're afraid.

No, in Suburbia, you stay in the same place, so you start wondering what your neighbors have. 'Hey, look at that guy's lawnmower, I need a sweet lawnmower now. Shit look at this landscaping, let's buy a lot of bushes. Damn, look at his wife! Honey, go get ass implants.'

College towns, by contrast, don't give a shit. I don't know my neighbors - fuck, I don't even know my subletters that well - and I can drive my shitty car and have a messy lawn and I don't care what people in close proximity think: I'm moving in a year.

But the second I get myself a permanent house, I need to get a large black SUV that, at the press of a button, can turn into an even larger black SUV.

(Work.)

Suburbia is a great example of what happens when you put a bunch of people next to each other. Sure, they may get along, but suddenly if they do anything in their free time it's to one-up the guy next door. There would be no such thing as landscaping if the suburbs did not exist.

Wife: "Honey, mow the lawn."
Husband: "I did. It's well-mowed and it looks just as good as the neighbor's."
Wife: "That's it?! We have the exact same house as everyone else in this subdivision. We have to prove that we're better than them in some way.
Husband: "I guess I could go buy some bushes 'n shit."
Wife: "Husband, you're a genius!"
Husband: "I'll never forgive my parents for naming me Husband."

And that's how landscaping was invented.

IT work made me hate psychology, humanity

If someone is pursuing a concentration in psychology, this is sometimes indicative of him or her wishing to understand the human mind so that it can be repaired (for a nominal fee, of course). I studied psychology, and at one point I wanted to fix mankind by diving into its brain and charging an hourly rate. I wanted to help the world with my mastery of the human mind.

Then I got a job in the IT department.

I hate mankind now. You people are stupid assholes. It's not that hard to open an email attachment, people, so stop asking me. Have you ever heard of Google? Fucking use it before asking me dumb shit. And for the love of each and every one of your different gods (I'm addressing all stupid cultures here), trying helping yourselves. And for the last time, look around before you ask me if we have a stapler. Dickheads.

(at work, hating humanity as a whole a little bit more, I'm sure.)

Don't think I hate my job, either. My job, which is both addressing hardware issues and answering software questions, is fine when it goes smoothly, and most of the time it does and all is well. However, when most of my time spent with users is spent answering questions about office supplies, sometimes I just want to rip off someone's head and pee down his or her neck.

I was gender-neutral there. I'd pee down his or her neck. I'm doing my best to avoid being ungrammatical or sexist, though I'm pretty sure there aren't feminists making signs that say things like "I demand that you pee down my neck, too."

I take that back. I'm sure there's a feminist somewhere making that very sign, but it's for entirely different reasons.

Jamster's ringtone zombie king

AIM's buddy list window, by default, has an obnoxious flash ad at the top. Sometimes the ads are for a new movie, but most of the time (at least for me) the buddy list ads are for Jamster ringtones.

Right now there's a Jamster ringtone ad in my buddy list window featuring Notorious B.I.G. Only the coloring is off, so he's red and grey, and the picture's small, so he's expressionless.

It's like a Biggie Smalls zombie has come back from the dead to sell me ringtones from my buddy list window. And to make matters worse, the ad is in Flash, so I can zoom in on his face. The result is chilling.

And he's wearing a crown, so I guess he's the ringtone zombie king. Great advertising, Jamster.

(bed.)

PUPPIES on your bedroom floor

The following post contained the word "vomit" many times. Because "vomit" is an unsavory word, it will be replaced with the word "puppies" in caps lock.

Nothing says 'you should drink less' like waking up hung over and discovering PUPPIES on your bedroom floor.

I didn't remember PUPPIESing, but I don't think anybody came over, so I can only assume it's mine. And I'm always surprised by the color of PUPPIES. I mean, I don't remember eating anything fluorescent pink.

I wish I could make my PUPPIES smell better, too. From now on, I'm eating nothing but cinnamon rolls. Those always smell delicious. Not even an aborted trip through my digestive tract could ruin the sweet scent of cinnamon rolls.

(showering, then buying some Resolve.)

I've covered everything from poop to old people to handicapped parking, yet very rarely does an away message get complaints. The lesson here is that respectable ladyfolk don't like reading away messages about me throwing up in my bedroom. And that's great, because I don't like writing about throwing up in my bedroom. I also don't like writing about writing about throwing up in my bedroom in my bedroom.

Eating wings until I'm physically unable to eat more wings

The Heidelberg offers unlimited wings for people who drink two beers. And there are decent beers available for two dollars. This means that if I spend four dollars (plus a dollar tip), I can eat wings until I'm physically unable to eat more wings.

How does the Heidelberg stay in business? I'll tell you why: the lines for the wings are ridonkulous, the trays of them get empty very quickly, and the wings are kinda crappy.

But did I mention that they're free? Because that'll make people wait in long lines regardless of whether or not the free thing is good or not.

Still, that doesn't mean I won't try to make this place go out of business.

(Ending the Heidelberg.)

If I ever get rich, I'm going to every bar in town and putting enough money in the jukebox to play Gwen Stefani's "Hollaback Girl" 30 times in a row. Drunk guys hate that song.

Parking tickets and ducks that can talk

On both Tuesday and Wednesday I was legally parked on a sidewalk (I can do this; I drive a university service vehicle) and on both days I received a parking ticket. I wasn't in the wrong, so I took pictures of my oh-so-legal parking job and they're being sent to the Public Safety Dickheads who write parking tickets to make people sad all the time.

Getting those two tickets on Wednesday got me thinking I should make a t-shirt. On it, a silhouette of a man is having sex with a duck. A speech bubble is near the man's mouth and it reads: 'I write parking tickets.' And maybe the duck's saying, 'I'm a talking duck.'

Then on the back it says, 'People who write parking tickets have sex with ducks that can talk.'

Who makes t-shirts? Let's print off a few. I'd gladly wear my revenge. It's not libel if it's true. Suck it, talking-duck bangers.

(Angell.)

People who write parking tickets must be sad, miserable people, I imagine that over time they become sexually aroused when they see a car parked over a yellow line, or they pop a microboner every time a car is less than three feet from a driveway and they get to write a ticket. Then after they stick that ticket and put it under some unlucky bastard's windshield, they gleefully make a little mess in their pants, wipe it up, and go back on the prowl for petty crimes.

Rednecks, white girls, and identity theft

Have you seen those identity theft protection commercials? It's good to see that people are still trying to make money by scaring my mom.

Those commercials feature an everyday American giving a testimonial about some stuff they bought, only their voice is the opposite of what you'd expect. Classy old ladies? Redneck voices. Black man? Whitest white girl voice possible. The goal is for people to see these commercials and think, 'Oh my God, those rednecks and white girl stole an identity. Better buy things.'

Well, America, I have news for you:
Rednecks don't steal identities. Most don't even have computers. Don't fear them because of identity theft. Fear them because of Deliverance.

And I have helped so many white girls fix their goddamn computers that the odds of one of them hacking into your mainframe and virusing your identity (their words, not mine) are somewhere between zero and itself.

(Bed.)

You're safe, America. At least until a terrorist with bird flu gets you.

If you want to be afraid of someone on the internet, fear the geeky white guys and foreigners overseas that are actually capable of stealing your identity. Or, more importantly, fear the people tricking you into buying protection from people who know less about computers than you do.