Unsecured diapers

My neighbors left their wireless network unsecured. Their network, 'Wireless,' still had its shameful default name.

That is, until I logged into their router and made some changes.


Eventually they're going to connect to their network. One roommate will call to the other and say, 'Did you change our wireless network's name?' The other will say, 'No, I don't think so.'

Then, there will be a pause.

'Are we...diapers?'

'Yes, I believe we're diapers.'
'Damn.'
Then they log into their router and add a password, living happily ever after.

Unfortunately, that day has yet to come, and so they're still diapers.



(bed.)

Note that the network in my apartment is CORRUPT_DONOTCONNECT. You want to convince people that they don't want to use your wireless network, and the best way to do that is through scary names and caps lock.

If you had to choose between "CORRUPT_DONOTCONNECT" and "diapers," which one would you choose: the network that threatens to hack your files or the network that promises to hold all your poop? I'm not a gambling man, but if I were, I'd bet on Huggies over the SCARY CAPS LOCK NETWORK.

Falling down the stairs, cursing the cat

Last week I was at home during that awkward space between leases. One night I was walking down the stairs in the dark (so as not to disturb my family members) when I stepped on a cat and fell down the goddamn stairs.

After standing up and realizing I had just landed on my tail bone, I proceeded to limp around the house trying to find the stupid cat that thought it would be a good idea to sleep on the stairs.

In Ann Arbor, pets aren't an issue. Either they're with you all the time or they die, because college life is dirty life. I wouldn't slip on a cat in Ann Arbor because a cat wouldn't survive if fed by your average college student unless Whiskas started making ramen noodles.

Basically what I'm saying is that my tail bone still hurts and that Ann Arbor is better than the suburbs because it has more dead animals.

(work.)

This morning (when I wrote that first part) I implied that Ann Arbor has more dead animals, and that's not how it works.

I think if Ann Arbor and The Suburbs were given an equal amount of animals, in this case we'll pretend the animals are all cats that sleep on the stairs, then I am conjecturing that over time the amount of dead stair cats would be greater in Ann Arbor.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how it should be.

Alumni donations, homeless man tits

I just got a call from the Michigan Alumni Association. I, being naive, thought what began as casual conversation with the female representative would end in survey.

Turns out, the bitch just wanted my money.

But that didn't stop her from making small talk first.
'What are you doing now?'
'Working for Campus Computing Sites.'
'Where is that?'
'Basement of the Union.'
'OH! I went there because my graphics card was having problems. They couldn't fix it.'

We don't fix computers. This lady had us mistaken for the Computer Showcase, which is similar, but not the same. I can imagine this lady calling other people at 9pm and saying stuff like:
'Oh, you work at Wendy's! I LOVE the Big Mac. Can I have all your money now?'

That bitch.

(around.)

What bothers me about that whole exchange was that she was chatting me up the way a stripper chats up a potential client (or so I've heard).

"Hey! How are you? What do you do? That's cool, that's cool... So you want me to put my breasts in your face? Because that's why I'm talking to you. I rub my breasts on people to pay my landlord and buy food."

Only instead of something fun like a proposed boobs-to-face interaction, all I got was "you got any change?" only over the phone and on a much larger scale.

Let me tell you, you put a pleasant-sounding woman on the phone and I'm a lot more likely to give several dollars to her than I am to give a couple quarters to a hungry man who sleeps in the streets. It's illogical and wrong, but that just drives home the point that homeless men would make a lot more money if they had nice tits.

Lovers (of horses) Who are Proud To be Loud

Tuesday was a slow work day, so I edited another Facebook group like the bored bastard I was.

This time, however, I decided to only change the picture and add just one sentence. See if you can find it!


Imagine hearing someone having loud sex with a horse in an elevator. It's hard, isn't it?

The imagining, I mean. Pervert.

(work.)

That'll teach those people to join a Facebook group and then not monitor it constantly.

Apparently changing Facebook groups was a lot easier at one point. A while ago I found a group whose description said things like, "We're against people who are against the 80's. We love the 80's. We think Alf is great" or whatever, but the name of the group was "Cum Gobblers Union."

Nowadays you've got to ruin a group by writing an offensive description around the unchangeable group name. It's tough, but I get by.

Paying for cheat codes, insulting the consumer

Best Buy is selling a book called Codes & Cheats Summer 2006 Edition. In it, one can find the hottest tricks and codes to help you beat games that you are too crappy to beat yourself.

Now, I don't know if Best Buy knows, this but pretty much every cheat code ever created can be found on the internet. The idea of spending 7 dollars on free information is so preposterous, the book may as well be called I Suck at the Internet and at Beating Video Games Myself 2006. They would have used that name, but for some reason insulting the consumer doesn't sell products.

A prime example of this concept can be found in the failed cereal marketing campaign, 'Eat Wheaties, you dog fuckers!'

(work.)

Combined with the previous "You'll have an orgasm" campaign, the "insult the consumer" campaign gives us things like: "You make me sick, even if you're being sexually fulfilled by this awesome product" and "Cream your pants, asshole."

Note that the meaning of "Cream your pants, asshole" changes drastically when read as a headline.

That's not how microwaves are cleaned

I forgot to put my leftovers in the microwave, so I just let an empty microwave run for two minutes.

It's going to be a great morning.

(work, 10 hours on a SUNDAY.)

You know how your oven cleans itself by burning everything away? Microwave ovens do not work that way.

Running a microwave for two minutes just burns all the crap stuck to the bottom of it.

I need to start drinking coffee.

Vanilla Frosties, my conversational best

Visiting home is a great way for me to feel both bored and boring. Today, over dinner with my mom, she talked about:
- A man she had met who robbed a bank to pay off gambling debts
- A friend's husband who likes to get drunk and chop wood (we later drove by his house, and holy shit, that was a lot of wood)
- Other stories of interesting stuff she's been up to lately

I, on the other hand, had this topic to cover:
- Wendy's has vanilla Frosties.

'Hey Mom, Wendy's has vanilla Frosties now.'
'Oh really? How are they?'
'They're pretty good.'
'Hmmm.'
END OF CONVERSATION

That's the best I could do. Summer is making me boring. I need an adventure, or at least a bad habit.

(bed.)

If we could go on an adventure, loyal reader(s), what would we do? I'm thinking it should involve vanilla Frosties, but that's probably my summer rut (and gut) speaking.

Hot call ahead seating action

Yesterday I grabbed dinner with my dad at Mongolian BBQ. They do call ahead seating, so my dad phoned them and said something along the lines of, 'Hi, I'd like to set up some hot call ahead seating action.'

That phrasing threw me off. As soon as he said that, I thought, 'Great, my dad's going to show up and fuck a chair.'

Mongolian BBQ has you fill a bowl with whatever you want, then some dudes stir fry it on a huge communal hot plate. I got two plates while there, each time taking back something I did not originally pick out. Potatoes, noodles, steak. Their motto may as well be, 'Mongolian BBQ: Better hope the guy next to you doesn't pick out weird shit.'

I move out in a week, so I've taken a ton of stuff home. Be back tonight.

(Home.)

I also observed that Mongolian BBQ is quite possibly the worst place to meet women. Firstly, it's a huge date place, and secondly, people end up doing a lot of stuff independently. A woman may finish getting her bowl ready before her husband, leaving her alone in line just long enough for a single man, say, your father, to strike up a conversation, only to have it awkwardly terminated by said husband joining the woman in line.

Another important thing to note about Mongolian BBQ is that the waitstaff, like every restaurant's waitstaff, is totally banging one another. Every griller has slept with every waitress. Every Friday night, after the doors close, all the Mongolian BBQ employees get together and have an orgy in a big pile of raw chicken and baby corn.

Also, chicken and baby corn are my two favorite ingredients at Mongo, so that mental image made me both horny and hungry. Horngry.

Exciting Facebook pictures and your boring life

With social networking sites like Facebook, your friends can share pictures of themselves doing exciting things to make you hate your own life.

Your friends can log on and upload photos of themselves touring London or camping in South America so that people across the globe can see how shitty their lives are in comparison.

To compete with these pictures, I'm going to photograph what I've been doing. I'll post page after page of me surfing the web at work, getting free black and white printing, and doing other awesome work stuff.

Screw your epic backpacking photos, Facebook friends. Do you get free coffee singles in the break room?

(dinner with Dad.)

The other day I saw that my buddy Drew had gone to Honduras. He'd grown a wicked beard and appeared to be having the time of his life. Meanwhile, I looked at YouTube for a few hours, checked my email several dozen times, and told a guy where the stapler is.

On the other hand, Drew is probably pooping in a hole while I can use a toilet whenever I want. Nobody said life-changing experiences would have indoor plumbing.

Wild Out Wednesdays at Charley's

One of my biggest problems with Good Time Charley's is they seem to have no concept of what people want when they go out on the town.

One ad for their crappy upstairs dance club features a woman with an afro squatting and holding a large green squirt gun with the words 'WILD OUT WEDNESDAYS!' written across her. If I saw a woman with an afro and a squirt gun, I'd probably think she was on drugs, because she would look like an asshole.

'Hey, Charley's is now stocking its clubs with afro whores wacked out on all sorts of drugs! Just kidding, but LADIES GET IN FREE! Wooooo!'

That's the kind of message you put out when you put assholes in your advertisements. You want to attract me to your club? How about 'Free bathtub of beer for goofy white men! Henrys get unlimited oral sex!" Then we'd see, Charley's. Then we'd see.

(work.)

When Charley's isn't luring you in with hoes and Super Soakers, they also put up signs that say, "THE HOT SPOT JUST GOT HOTTER! FREE WIRELESS INTERNET!"

Wireless internet is so fucking hot.

I would have preferred they got something other than "FREE WIRELESS INTERNET!" Maybe "MORE ATTENTIVE WAITSTAFF!" or "CHAIRS!"

Early morning amputation story

Sometimes I wake up and the skin around my right eye is puffy. I don't know if it's an allergy or a hex or what, but the swelling goes down by lunchtime, so I don't sweat it.

Last week, Roy the Custodian saw my eye and asked me if I'd seen a doctor.
'It might be a spider bite.'
'Nah, I'm ok. It'll be better in no time.'
'The other day a freshman was in here and he had a mark on his leg. I says to him, 'You should see a doctor.' He asks why and I says I knew a guy who had a spider bite and he didn't see a doctor.'
'No, seriously, I'll be ok.'
'He got gangrene. They amputated his leg.'
'...'
'See you later.'

Maybe he just thought I looked tired and I'd wake up if he scared me. 'Hey, your eye's swollen. I know a guy with one leg.'

Thanks, buddy.

(bed.)

I have a feeling that Roy's one of those parents that loves scaring their kids into behaving.

"Eat these oranges! I met a guy who never ate oranges and he got scurvy. He bled out of his gums, then they got infected and the doctors had to remove his head to stop the infection. Then he died. He didn't have a head. Eat the oranges!"
"Turn off that Xbox and go outside! I knew a guy who didn't exercise and his windpipe collapsed under the weight of his chins. He didn't have an Xbox or anything, but you get the idea."

I looked up the symptoms of scurvy to make fun of the friendly custodian at work. That's a combination of dedication and being a dick.

Pen theft prevention and the most hated smell

At work, I get asked for a pen daily. We should seriously sell pens, or we should offer pens that punish the user for being irresponsible.

If users are too lazy to buy a pen and "just need one for a second" we could ask them what their most hated smell is. Then we'd rummage through the pen drawer and give them the pen that corresponds to their most hated smell (MHS, as we'll call it). That way, up until they return the pen, they will be miserable.

'Can I borrow a pen?'
'Sure. What's your most hated smell?'
'What? I just want a pen.'
'This is important.'
"Fine. Burning tires.'
(The consultant finds the pen labeled 'burning tires' and hands it to the user.)
Simple as that!

I've also debated getting smell pens that only occasionally emit the MHS, so that we'd get to hear people yell things like, 'THIS PEN SMELLS LIKE A WHARF!' or 'AHHHHH FERRET CAGE!'

(dinner.)

My most hated smell is a toss-up between "festering bath mat", "hippie dreadlocks", and "homeless man subway urine." What's yours?

Semi-humane bat disposal

Last night my buddy Dan and I caught a bat that was flying around his apartment.

Dan has a tennis racket. And while that may seem like the ideal tool of choice when catching bats, it's actually the best way to splatter tiny mammal guts all over your couch.

The bat was caught when Dan pressed a garbage against the ceiling, trapping the bat inside. We then slid a towel over the top, carried the garbage can outside, and then heroically threw the garbage can into the alley behind Dan's apartment complex and ran inside like cowardly little girls.

However, the bat has now seen my face, so I fear that one day he may decide to terrorize my home by sitting in a corner and occasionally looking at me. That batty dick.

(work.)

I made an incorrect pun right there. "Batty" means "crazy," not "batlike." I mean, that bat might have been crazy, but only because it was dying of rabies.

Cannibals from the future with heat rays

It's so hot I'm pretty much roasting in my own juices.

That got me thinking that maybe a bunch of cannibals got ahold of a heat ray, and they're using it to slow cook the Midwest so that later they can run in and eat it. However, heat rays don't exist yet, and cannibals aren't common, so naturally this is the work of cannibals from the future.

I don't know what the future holds, aside from hungry cannibals and a ray that can make me sweat through shirts and pants. Based on that information alone, it's pretty safe to say that at least we don't have to worry about those damn robots.

(sweating in bed.)

You know, the robots that enslave mankind in the next couple centuries. What, you don't own a time machine?