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Tuesday, October 31, 2006

I'm not Catholic, but I'm circumsized

Today I was filling out my DePaul application next to Amy and I got to the part where you designate your religion. DePaul was founded as a Catholic university, so the application has 'Catholic' and 'other.' I wondered if they were conveying a preference here.

I asked Amy if they can check to see if I'm Catholic.

'Is there a huge God Book where they can see if I was morphed into a Catholic?'
'I don't know, I'll ask my mom.'

So she calls her mom and asks if there's a God Book, and it turns out there's some kind of baptism registry. We sat and brainstormed ways I could scam DePaul into letting me in despite being on the fast track to hell.

'I'm circumsized,' I offer.
'That's for Jewish people,' Amy said, shaking her head.
'I heard that,' her mom said from Amy's phone.

So now Amy's mom knows more about my wiener than before.

Still in need of scamming ideas for DePaul...

(bed.)

Anybody have ideas that would help me in this situation? Should I...
  • pretend to be Catholic and hope they don't check,
  • put myself down as an agnostic, or
  • claim to follow another, less verifiable religion?
Any input would be appreciated.

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Friday, October 27, 2006

Google almost turned me into a donkey

Yesterday night, Google rented out Pinball Pete's and let everyone come in and eat pizza, drink pop, and play games. Everyone who was there had a really good time.

The event scared me, though. I was so happy I got suspicious.

These people are hiring for an amazing job and they're giving everyone free games and pizza with no catch. Remember in the story of Pinocchio when all the kids went to Pleasure Island and had a great time, and then they got donkey fever, turned into donkeys to be sold at the market? I felt like Google was letting us have that much fun. So much fun it'll only end in us turning into donkeys.

Still, I got a shirt, so that's awesome.

(work.)

Second reason why the event scared me:
If you want a job with Google, you have to talk to the reps that are there, and it becomes just like a high school dance all over again. The pretty ladies are walking around, waiting for you to talk to them, and you're too nervous to say hi, so you just end up nodding at them when you walk by. This kind of shyness will not result in a job of any kind, whether it be blow, hand, or salaried.

The event may not have turned me into a donkey, but after I was too scared to talk to any Google reps, I felt like an ass. Close enough, I guess.

LEFTOVER IDEAS:
Oh man, if I went out on a date with a girl and at the end of the night she leaned over and gave me a salaried job, I would be disappointed at first, then thrilled the next week when I started my new salaried job.

However, I'm pretty sure a lot of people at that company would have also almost gotten a blowjob from this lady and settled for a salaried, non-blow job, and that may be awkward. This woman must get around if she's going on dates with dudes and then exchanging employment for not blowjobs. I don't know how you'd set up something like that.

I just don't.

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Wednesday, October 25, 2006

Hangovers and businessman turkey necks

Yesterday at Bdubs some older guys bought us beer so they could have our seats. The thing is, we were leaving anyway, so basically we got free beer from some drunk businessmen.

However, the whole experience reminded me to start exercising. One of the older men had a neck that apparently went from the top of his chest directly to his chin. He didn't have that concave line going upward from his torso and then outward to his chin. Oh no, he had just a curve that was as grotesque as it was convex. Just a big ol' turkey neck, gobble gobble, here's a beer, thanks for the seat, remember to take up jogging.

Also I think I'm hung over. Damn this genetic bad tolerance, and damn my forefathers for giving me their weak livers! Damn you, great great great great great great grandfather for not inventing beer and then drinking it.

(work.)

When I'm feeling sick, I like to swear at my ancestors.

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Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Amy phones an Indian man

Tonight Amy's CD-rom drive decided to quit working and sit on the couch all day collecting welfare. Upon realizing she had to call tech support, she had this to say to me online:
Amy: it might be too late to call
Henry: to call me or to call an indian man?
Amy: (pause, as she calls tech support) fuuuuuck he's Indian
Amy: fuck fuck fuck!

And Amy's the more politically correct of the two of us. Just goes to show you that when cutting through a multi-layered onion of a computer problem, nobody wants to have to deal with the language barrier, too.

No offense, Indian people. You guys are great. ALL OF YOU.

(sleep.)

I mean it.

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Friday, October 20, 2006

Loser Magnet and the lobsters

Yesterday I saw a girl on the bus with a backpack with 'Loser Magnet,' on it. Now, unless that's the name of her favorite band, having those words there isn't going to help her make friends.

If men paid attention, meeting her on would go something like:
'Hey, mind if I sit here? Thanks. Say, don't you live in Bursley? That's cool. Hey, what's written on your backpack?'
(pause, guy looks at the words 'Loser Magnet' on her backpack)
'Well then, fuck you too, bitch.'

Some day she'll meet her dream guy. He'll be into the same music as her, like the same movies that she does, and he'll be wearing a shirt that says, 'I must be covered in Cunt Glue.'

She'll see that shirt, talk to him, and they'll fall madly in love, but then they'll break up once she finds out that Cunt Glue is actually just a band and she's attracted yet another loser.

(work.)

I wanted to sit down next to her and say, "Listen, what you've got written on your backpack right now makes you look crazy. Let me help you with that." Then I'd take out a marker and make a couple changes.
She'd say, "You just added a couple letters. Now my backpack just says 'Lobster Magnet.'"
"And now all the boys on campus will want to know what's so special about you that makes you attract lobsters. You're welcome."
Then I'd get off the bus, regardless of whether or not it's my stop, and I'd walk home feeling good about myself.

She'll go home and throw away her backpack while dozens of lobsters scurry toward her dorm room.

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Thursday, October 19, 2006

Hot lady starving in the lactose desert

When I was a baby living in Colorado, I hung out with another baby named Danielle. Danielle's mom and my mom would hang out and do mom stuff, so Danielle and I hung out and took naps, drank from our ba-ba's, generally did baby stuff.

19 years later I was in Colorado for the summer selling fireworks and I saw Danielle again. Turns out she was an aspiring model, which is a big change from the last time I saw her and she just sat around and shit herself all day.

One night we hung out and she showed me her modeling portfolio. In every picture she looked emaciated and sad, like the photographer was saying things like, 'You're tired, baby. You're stranded in a desert and it's so hot and you're exhausted. But what's this? The desert is suddenly made of cheese. And oh no, you're lactose intolerant, so you can't eat all that tasty cheese. Look hungry and helpless, baby, 'cause you're in a cheese desert.'

(work.)

Needless to say, I told her she looked great and hoped she'd have sex with me. Instead of engaging in Hot Post-Diapers Reunion Coitus with me, she and her sister smoked pot in the front seats of her car while I sat in the back seat in silence. I haven't talked to Danielle since.

True story.

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Wednesday, October 18, 2006

Homeless lady's got commercials

There's this homeless lady who walks around Ann Arbor screaming to herself and let me tell you, it's incredible.

I'm not exactly sure how she operates. Yesterday I was walking past her while talking on the phone and she started yelling. She wasn't yelling directly AT me, but she was yelling like she wanted me to overhear her.

I was on the phone talking to my buddy Dan when I hear her yell, 'IT WAS A LOVELY TIME,' and I pause because I want to know what exactly was such a lovely time.

'ARRGH THAT BITCH!' she yelled next. Hmmm. Maybe it wasn't a lovely time.

Then she walked past me and yelled, I shit you not, 'AFLAC!'

This woman entertains me more than most TV shows, but hearing that last part got me to think, 'Ah shit, she's got commercials, the most capitalist of homeless person disorders.'

(work.)

I have to wonder when she saw a commercial for Aflac. When does a schizophrenic homeless person find the time to watch television or listen to the radio enough to hear Gilbert Gottfried yelling "Aflac!"? Was she off-duty?

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Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Susceptible to bullets, death rays, and alligators

Well, it's time to start yet another day of fixing things that other people have broken.

I don't know how Superman does it. If I have to drive more than five minutes to unjam a printer I get furious. Why can't these people unjam the printer themselves? Can they not read the error message that pops up? Come on, you idiots.

I don't think my attitude would change if I was saving people, either. I'd swoop down from the heavens and punch a bank robber in the face, then fly away muttering, 'stupid citizens can't even deflect bullets with their feeble human ribcages...'

So I'm off fixing stuff, while you continue being susceptible to bullets, death rays, and alligators.

(work.)

...because fixing printers all day makes you immune to bullets, death rays, and alligators.

Looks like this is the second entry in a row in which I'm documenting my slow descent into delusions of grandeur.

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Monday, October 16, 2006

Printer-related knowledge is exciting

It may be Fall Study Break for you Michigan students, but for me it's The Extended Weekend With Less Paper Jams.

Sometimes when users are waiting for me to fill or unjam a printer, they get impatient and ask 'will the printer work if I print?' I want to explain and say, 'Yes, I'm loading tray 4,which is on the bottom, but the printer moves paper upward, so it'll just print from trays 2 and 3 while tray 4 is open.'

But I know they won't listen, just like you probably stopped reading as soon as I offered more than four words on whether or not the printer worked, none of them being 'yes' or 'no.'

I live an exciting life.

(work for another 4 hours, because the first 9 hours today weren't enough.)

When I'm at the doctor and something's wrong with me, the doctor always tries to explain what's happening, even if it's too complicated for my stupid non-doctor brain. When I'm fixing a printer and somebody's waiting for their lecture notes, I tell them what's happening and they look at me like I'm speaking Portuguese. Backwards. Out of my butt.

If your lecture notes matter that much to you, then do us both a favor and treat the printer like your kidneys are inside it and I'm the only person who can save your kidneys (or at least get them out of the printer).

I know what I'm doing here, much like a doctor, and while this may not affect you in the long term the way a doctor finding a tumor in your scrotum would, it's affecting the next five minutes of your life. Long story short: Please listen to me, because until you realize that most printer jams can be fixed without me, you need my help.

Tune in next post, when I go on a vicious rant about how it bugs me when people jam the stapler and then borrow pens and don't return them! Man, I hate that!

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Apparently she had sex with strangers

One of the problems with being a nice guy is that when you're single, women tend to overlook you as a potential candidate in the Election for Vaginal President.

A girl may tell you that you're just like a friend from home, and just because you remind her of someone who has always been a friend, you'll always be a friend, too.

She'll think of you as a friend she never dated, but you don't want that, do you? In fact, you want the exact opposite. You want to be a stranger that she has sex with all the time.

You want this:
'Hey lady, you ready for sex?'
'Yes, but I don't want to know your name.'
'Okay, let's get to work.'

Am I right?

(work.)

Pfffft, that figures. You take the time to get to know a girl and then it turns out she consistently bangs anonymous dudes, and you're not one of them.

Somehow being one of those dudes would ease the pain of really, really liking a huge slut.

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Saturday, October 14, 2006

Inventing a disease

I want to invent a disease that can be cured by scratching.

There are so many illnesses that get worse with scratching even though it feels so good. But with MY disease, you scratch yourself and it feels amazing, and then after a while you're cured.

Wait, did I just say I want to invent a disease?!

Eh, at least I'm inventing. Clarence Birdseye would be proud.

His ghost could come to me and say:
'Hey, I invented a harpoon gun and a method of converting sugar cane waste to paper. What'd you invent, great grandson?'
'A disease.'
(pause)
'I want my blood back.'

Figure out how one gives his or her blood back to a grandparent while I'm at work.

(...on a Saturday.)

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Thursday, October 12, 2006

The Flush 'N Run

If your cell phone rings just as you're just finishing up in the bathroom, and your phone's in your pocket, do you pick it up?

I do, and let me tell you, the situation can get awkward fast.

Today Amy called me just as I was about to flush the toilet. I picked up, 'cause hey, I was about to leave the bathroom soon so at least she wouldn't hear that awkward 'I'm pooping' echo you sometimes get when you're crapping on the phone.

At this point I attempted the always-risky Flush 'N Run. I thought that if I flushed the toilet and ran from the bathroom, she wouldn't hear the flushing sound and I'd be fine.

Well, I wasn't fine.
'Did you just flush the toilet?'
'Yes. Yes I did.'
'Oh.'
'Yeah, I was just finishing up.'
'...'
'Next time I'll just flush later.'
'Probably a good idea.'

(bed.)

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Poorly following in Clarence's footsteps

While in Massachusetts for Clarence Birdseye Day, I saw the unveiling of Clarence's portrait. After the dedication ceremony, we all went out to lunch and I ended up sitting near the woman who painted my great grandfather's portrait.

We chatted during the meal, then toward the end, she handed me her card. My mother, wanting to return the gesture, took out a business card I had printed out for free. It says 'Henry Birdseye: Total Badass' and then there's the address to the blog.

'This is for you, if it's appropriate' my mom said to the painter, who didn't hear her completely.
'No, Mom, don't give her that. It links to my blog, and that's no good.'
The painter heard this and asked what we were talking about and saw the card in my hand. I couldn't say, 'THIS IS SOMETHING WE'RE NOT GIVING YOU,' so I handed her my stupid card instead.

So I may have gotten a respectable painter from Gloucester to read a blog that features entries such as 'one time I set my dick on fire' and 'man, homeless people bother me.'

Oops.

(work.)

Being the great grandson of a beloved inventor, author, entrepreneur, etc., old people kept asking me what I'm doing to follow in Clarence's footsteps. Here are some possible responses I could have given , followed by why I did not share them.
  • "I got a bachelor's degree in psychology." - I know some people whose dogs have a bachelor's degree in psychology, and they're not even smart dogs.
  • "I have a blog that I update every couple of days." - Old people do not know what blogs are. They might think I'm saying "I have a log that I update" because old people usually don't know what blogs are. I'd have to say "No, no, I'm not updating part of a tree. It's a bunch of internet words that mostly my friends read. Scientific facts? Oh no, it's just a collection of filth I couldn't even mention in my resume."
  • "I repair computers at a university from which I graduated last year." - Old people don't want to hear that the great grandson of a famous inventor graduated college only to work full time replacing keyboards on which people have spilled Diet Coke.
  • "I ate the front half of a skunk." - Actually, this one would have worked pretty well. Too bad it's a lie.
(In case you're just joining us, Clarence is quoted as saying, "The front half of a skunk is excellent." Sure, that's weird, but I think his quirkiness is justified because he's the reason why you can own a freezer.)

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Deleted Scene Thursday: Interracial Porn

It's Deleted Scene Thursday! Today I'll post an away message I have yet to put in the blog because I feel guilty about how inappropriate and/or nasty it is. Here's today's:

'There's no way I could consider myself a racist. Not with all the interracial porn on my computer.

That right there is racial harmony at its finest. It's genital diplomacy uniting different cultures to speak the universal language of 'Oh oh oh!'

By collecting interracial pornography, I'm merely preserving these groundbreaking contributions to equality, love, and touching yourself.'

I never posted this one to the blog because I wasn't sure if people would get that I wasn't 100% serious. In fact, I may have been using irony.

Also, my girlfriend pointed out that talking about how much porn I have may not look good. Ah well.

(work.)

I kind of like the idea of Deleted Scene Thursday. The obvious downside of this is that now I have to write stuff, but not like it until Thursday, when I make fun of it. Damn.

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Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Clarence Birdseye Day

Last weekend I was in Gloucester, Massachusetts to celebrate Clarence Birdseye Day.

Clarence invented the frozen food process, a method of converted sugar cane waste into paper, and a sweet harpoon gun. Gloucester owes him because frozen seafood is the only thing keeping Gloucester going, aside from rampant sailor alcoholism.

Clarence was truly a renaissance man, being not just an inventor, an author, a naturalist, and an entrepreneur, but also a hillbilly chef.

From a USA Today article:
'Birdseye could make a mean soup of mice, chipmunks and gophers... He once told an interviewer: 'I'll tell you another thing — the front half of a skunk is excellent.''

Way to go, great grandfather.

(bed.)

Unfortunately, there's no documentation of Clarence going insane and inventing crazy shit. For example, he made a pretty sweet harpoon gun that shot harpoons using kinetic energy generated from a large rubber band and a crank mechanism.

Now imagine he snaps and turns the gun into something that shoots, say, frozen gerbils. Because he was so brilliant, there would be at least a week or two where people take him seriously and think "oh man, frozen gerbils. I've always had trouble moving all my frozen gerbils over long distances before they melted, but now that genius invented a frozen gerbil gun."

Then after Clarence is committed, that person would look at his large cache of frozen gerbil guns and think "Ah, fuck."

Unfortunately for comedy, Clarence Birdseye died of a mostly unhilarious heart attack. Damn.

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Wednesday, October 04, 2006

She'd buy, like, a million houses

Yesterday some BDubs, me 'n the other dudes were talking about what we'd do if we had all the money we'd ever need.

Just then, three girls asked to sit at our table until they could find their own. We said sure, have a seat, and then asked our question.

The prettiest of the girls said, 'I'd buy, like, a million houses, and a car, and I'd buy a hot guy, and -'
'Whoa,' I stopped her. 'You'd buy a hot guy. As in, you'd buy a slave?'
'Whatever, I'd be rich,' she replied cuntishly.
'Oh.'

People, she'd buy a million houses. That way, over the course of her life she could visit several hundred of her houses a day. She'd spend a few minutes at each house, then move on to the next. This life of constant travel and slave ownership sounds AWESOME.

(work.)

I'm bothered whenever I realize that a person fits a stereotype. Within seconds, The Housemonger described above dashed any possibility of shocking me with any of that, um... What do you call it when you think of stuff on your own? Oh yes, original thought. I know for a fact that you can be in a sorority and think for yourself, but Housemonger and her buddies Genericface and Thyroid Problem must not have time to do that between following others and putting out to strangers.

So we let the girls sit at our table while they waited to swoop in a freshly vacant table purely because:
  1. They weren't horribly ugly.
  2. We had the seats open.
  3. Vaginas!
As soon as the question left my mouth and went into Blondie's ear, her eyes got wide with excitement.

"How much money do I have?"
"Enough to do whatever you want."
"Like, how much?"
"To the point where money is no longer an object."
"So, like, billions?"
At this point I thought breaking my glass of beer over her face, but beer's expensive, so I held back.
"Sure, you have billions."

Then, instead of telling us about her plans to find spiritual enlightenment in her free time, she basically said, "I'd buy everything, like, ever. Also, there'd be slaves." Good thing she didn't come off as shallow or anything.

Then the girls talked about their pledge class and Thyroid Problem told us about a song she'd written about her sorority (A parody of a popular song. Genius!) while Genericface thought about shampoo. They ordered waters (which none of them really drank), looked for an empty table, then left without leaving anything for the waitress. The waters were free, but come on, ladies, don't be assholes.

In conclusion, those girls sucked. The end.

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Sunday, October 01, 2006

Help me find the cure for Vindieselitis

The other day I was thinking about what I would do if I got a rare disease that nobody's even heard of before. After a few minutes of deep thought, I knew what I would do.

I would find a way to infect a celebrity with my disease.

You may be thinking, 'Why? Why would you do that? That's horrible.' Well, having my disease is horrible, too, and you don't see me freaking out.

Anyway, celebrities could get people to find a cure better than I ever could. I'd probably just get a syringe full of my blood and go to Hollywood. I'd pick out a celebrity everybody knows but doesn't really like and then find a way to get 'em sick.

Sure, the disease won't be named after me, but that's fine, because the celebrity will probably name the disease after himself before he goes on a 'Find the Cure' tour. I don't mind having Keanu Reeves Disease or Vindieselitis as long as it gets cured.

(bed.)

What began as a simple "What if...?" thought exercise led to me daydreaming about infecting celebrities with my hypothetically diseased blood.

Who do you think I should infect with my (fictional) rare disease? I'm leaning toward Carlos Mencia. That guy's an asshole.

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