Hot dog disagreement (I'm moving to Chicago)

I move to Chicago on Wednesday. I'll share contact information once I'm settled.

I hear a lot of, 'So...Chicago, huh? You like those Chicago hot dogs?' Normally when people are making casual conversation with you you need to agree with them or disagree in a funny way, but so far all I've thought of is, 'No, I don't like Chicago hot dogs.' Then both of us will just stand there in hot dog disagreement. We might talk about hot dogs a little more, or one of us will walk away. Either way, I fucked up my end of the Chicago hot dog discussion.

My neighbor Dave took a unique approach to casual conversation when he heard about my move. 'Chicago, huh? That city fucking sucks. I hate it.'

What do I say to that?

'Yes, friendly neighbor, my future home is in a shitty place, and I moved there because I suck. It was nice talking with you, now I'm going to go into the garage and eat a bag of horse turds because I make bad decisions.'

(errands.)

I spent a couple minutes thinking about whether it'd be funnier if I was eating a bag of regular turds or eating a bag of horse turds. I eventually settled on horse turds because I decided that someone going out and actively looking for horse turds to put in a bag and bring home was funnier than someone just collecting turds they had lying around the house.

Google Analytics keyword WTF

Recently the site has seen about a tenfold increase in traffic coming in from people searching for stuff. Fortunately, I have Google Analytics, which can tell me exactly what people were searching for when they found this blog. Most of the searches involve away messages for Facebook, but some of the others...are a little off. Check this out:
Frisky ferret dildo?! Why, God, Why?!

I haven't used these words together before, but separately? Sure:
Frisky - "The printer is frisky, needs sex" - I accidentally told a guy that a printer was horny
Ferret - "AHHHHH FERRET CAGE!" - in reference to the Most Hated Smell pen project
Dildo -"a purple dildo dipped in paint" - the only writing utensil more embarrassing than a pink princess pen

But, to date, I've never used those words together. At least, not until now, which means one thing: I've got the "frisky ferret dildo" search locked down.

(not actually on AIM 'cause the computer's sick.)

Other interesting searches that got someone here:

• "funny boob away messages" - because tits are hilarious...?
• "how to write sweet messages for my girlfriend" - you found the wrong place, buddy
• "dreams of water while sleeping" - from the guy who just searched for "best laundry detergent to get pee out of bed sheets"
• "show your titts blog" - I have yet to post a picture of an exposed breast, but if someone were to offer one...

I accidentally ate bugs

This next part's kind of gross, so don't read it within 30 minutes of eating food.

Yesterday I was eating Kashi cereal for dinner when toward the end of the bowl I noticed a couple of tiny black specks floating in the milk. I looked closer and then realized oh shit, those are bugs.

So, I thought, what do I do now? Quit eating the fucking cereal, obviously. But now do I throw up? I mean, just how many bugs did I eat without realizing it? Were they always in the food or did they climb in up off the table? Are they going to lay eggs?

Then I started thinking about how nutritious the bugs were to stop myself from throwing up. 'Some cultures eat them all the time, right? I think I read that in National Geographic.'
'Did you?' I thought back at myself. 'Did you really read that or did you make it up? Also they probably clean the bugs first, and they're most likely different bugs. Healthier bugs.'

So I, not sure if the bugs that may be in my stomach were even dead, just drank a beer really fast to supposedly kill them, but even then I wasn't sure if they weren't going to lay eggs.
Maybe pouring beer on bugs is like pouring water on a gremlin, ya know?

So I may be sick today, but I feel fine, at least until an army of bugs bursts out of my stomach.

(work.)

I thought about how bugs supposedly have a lot of protein in them, and how all that protein was good for me, and because of all the protein I should have no problem eating bugs that may have been crawling around in my cereal for weeks, because at least it's healthy.

But I don't even know if bugs have protein in them. I think I just assumed they did so I didn't feel sicker.

Thank God she was ugly

When I was in 8th grade, I had one of those middle school relationships. Ya know, there's a girl that you call a lot and you both have crushes on each other and sometimes, when things get hot and heavy, you hold hands and walk around the mall.

Well, I didn't see her in person all that much 'cause she lived a couple towns over, but when I did I kinda thought, 'ugh, she's not too good lookin'.' That soon led to 'Oh crap, does this mean I'm gay?'

Then a year later I got a different girlfriend, and we made out a lot, and I thought 'Whew, I guess the first one was just ugly. Thank God.'

(work.)

First Girlfriend, if you're reading this, I'm sure you were just going through an ugly duckling phase and now you've matured into a beautiful swan, your lovely brown eyes matched only by your long white neck and bright orange beak.

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.

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.

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.

Polite beastiality discussion, beer pong

Last time I went to one of the Church St. girls' barbeque parties, I got drunk and told Jenna in graphic detail exactly how and why she regularly has sex with horses. I did this over a game of beer pong and many, many people overheard our polite beastiality discussion.

The problem with this is not that I talked about interspecies sex on a friend's front lawn. The problem is that last time I set a precedent.

When I show up tonight, the ladies are going to expect me to become intoxicated and verbally abusive within a half hour. They'll be all, 'Henry, what animals do I have sex with? Drink this bad beer and tell me about it while you throw ping pong balls into cups.'

So, I'm doing that, I guess.

(BBQ.)

Beer pong is just an awful bastardization of that cups game on The Bozo Show. The Bozo Show cups game ("The Grand Prize Game", I believe it was called) had kids from the audience dropping ping pong balls into increasingly distanced cups and then clapping their hands as they won bigger and better prizes. If the kid missed, a man in a clown suit would play it off like it was no big deal and the show would continue.

I think beer pong is kind of like that, only instead of winning a bike or the Skip-Bo card game, you get to brag about your wicked beer pong skillz. Losers, rather than being silently ushered offstage, get insulted by people who take great pride in throwing ping pong balls into plastic cups. Both winners and losers get to drink shitty beer.

Sub shifts and dog parts up for grabs

Today my fellow consultants received the following email:

"Hey consultants!

Who likes money? Assuming Sites doesn't hire communists, I assume that everybody reading this likes money (even you!).

Tomorrow (Thursday) from 3:30pm to 7:30pm, fortune awaits thee, as I will bequeath unto you four - count 'em - FOUR Angell consulting hours. Imagine all the stuff you can buy with the money you'll make at this sub shift. Candy, hats, office supplies, and...

Oh! Do you like puppies? Well...um...they're really expensive, so you could spend your 30+ sub shift dollars on...part of one. A leg, maybe.

Do you want a puppy leg? Take my sub shift and find yourself one step closer to part of a dog!

-Henry"

(bed.)

Sometimes I'll think about taking off work, but then I'll stop because I don't have the creative energies necessary to tell my coworkers that certain hours are available for the taking. Most people send out emails that say "Hey! Angell shift open next Tuesday at 1:30. -Scott"

I'm pretty sure I just sold detached dog appendages to my coworkers.

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.

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.

Endangered Animal Sex Train

Amy was an extra in a feature film, she just doesn't know what it's about. The director had her look at a watch and sigh while waiting for a train. This is all we know about the plot. Aside from that, the movie could be about anything:

Setting: Train station
GUY 1: The train is late.
(Amy looks at her watch and sighs.)
GUY 2: I know. I need this train.
GUY 1: Me too. I haven't had sex with an endangered animal in a long time.
(Amy looks at her watch and sighs.)
GUY 2: I sure could go for some hot bald eagle action in my pants.
GUY 1: How much longer must we wait for the train that allows us to have sex with endangered animals?
(Amy looks at her watch and sighs.)
(A train pulls up with ENDANGERED ANIMAL SEX TRAIN written on its side. Mooing, quacking, and that sound a dolphin makes can be heard.)
GUY 1: Let's gangbang a manatee.
GUY 2: Shotgun blowhole!

(Work, 8-6.)

Before you start fact checking my jokes, know this: I deliberately chose quacking and mooing as the animal noises for the train. This isn't common knowledge, but endangered animals are very quiet. You ever hear a panda say, "Don't shoot me please. I have much to offer the world"? Of course not. They're all dead from being quiet little bamboo-lovin' bitches.

Also manatees don't really have blowholes. Someone fact checked that joke, but while they were technically correct, they were also technically a wang.

Bad electricity, dead eskimos

Today an electrician evaluated our power situation at the house. What we received was a pink slip featuring a list of errors and the words: 'Status: FAIL'
Among the other blunders of our housing group:
-When the air conditioning broke, they hired eskimos to walk around the house and hug everybody.
-When our ceiling had a leak in it, they just gave us a bucket to collect any messes. When our toilet was broken, we got the same thing.
-Our toilet is powered by crank, and our washing machine is powered by a team of hamsters on wheels.
-All the hamsters are dead.
-So are half the eskimos.

Christ, these long away messages are killing me. I told myself, 'I want to go to bed' but I replied with 'make a dumb list about your house in which half the eskimos die.'

Ta da! Now I'm tired.

(Sleep, then work 3:30 to 9:30am.)

While writing that dumb list, I was tempted to include real things they've done wrong, but I decided that'd be too easy. But for fun, here's a serious list of crappy things Cappo Management has provided:
-Our dishwasher leaves little specks of crap on and around our dishes.
-At first our oven had no knob, but then they got us a knob, and it was blank, so they gave us an oven thermometer.
-One of the outlets in our kitchen is busted, so we have an extension cord going across the middle of our kitchen.
-Our toilet spit nastiness all over the 2nd floor of the house. Our bathroom also leaks into one of the 1st floor bedrooms, just not mine.
-One of the parking spots behind our house is shared with some random girl. We don't even know her name, but we routinely curse her existence every time we pull into our back yard and see her stupid car parked there. This isn't even her fault; she was put there for us to hate her. Thanks, landlords.

Our real problems make our fake problems seem so much more fun. Kind of makes me wish for a pile of dead hamsters in the basement.

Offend the horse bangers

The other day some DJs on 89x were talking about a recent controversy involving Tiger Woods.

In an interview, he talked about how he had messed up and described himself as 'a total spaz.'
People with cerebral palsy got all mad because 'spaz' refers to people with the palsy.
And the 89x DJ, without a bit of irony in her voice, said, 'That's lame.'
So I heard that and thought, 'Wow, she's retarded.'

Then someone read this and thought, 'Jokes about political correctness in an away message? That's gay.'

Think about it. We insult people by giving them culturally undesirable traits, some of which are inescapable.

Which is why I insult people by calling them horse fuckers. Nobody is going to say, 'Excuse me, I fuck horses, and I find that offensive.' And if they do, well, fuck them and the horse they rode in on.

(Work, double entendres, etc. Back by 11:15am.)

Alcoholism may be a disease, and homosexuality may be genetic, but nobody's going to come out of the womb yearning for horse sex.

Unless, of course, you live on a farm that raises horses that are really, really sexy. In which case, you stay in that magical horse farm and you bang those horses, but don't start picketing if I call someone a horse fucker.

Lizards are expensive

So I was talking to Amy about ideal pets and she started talking about the leopard gecko, a friendly, easy-to-care-for lizard she worked with at PetSmart (it was for sale, not a coworker).

So I, trying to be a good boyfriend, debating buying her one to keep her company in Chicago. Then I learned the dark secret behind the leopard gecko:

They're fucking expensive.

No one should be allowed to put a price on life because life is precious. And if they do put a price on life, it shouldn't be 100 dollars for a goddamn lizard.

I'm appalled that someone could have the nerve to take an animal out of its native habitat and then lock it up in a store like that. The least they could do (if they had souls) was let me set the lizard free for free. Old school American leaders said freedom has a price, but that usually meant going to war, not spending half your fucking paycheck on a reptile. Assholes.

(Class.)

Until I strike oil in my basement, I guess I'll just have to roam the forest, looking for cute stuff I can give to my girlfriend.

I hope she likes rocks. And not the diamond kind, either (diamonds cost even more than lizards!).

Hippies hate dossiers

On my way toward the Diag today I overheard one Hash Basher expressing concern to another Hash Basher:
'Do you think people will be here taking our pictures and putting us in their dossier?'

Wow, guy. They say pot makes people paranoid, but I'm glad you're out there dispelling any myths with your example.

And do people even have dossiers anymore? I bet somewhere there's a guy with a dossier, and it's sitting right next to his rocking chair and rotary telephone.

Hippies made UM's political activism seem a hell of a lot more impressive. They made the 'Buy Coke and pour it out to protest Coke' student rallies look like full-blown revolutions next to the hippies' politically motivated signs about...um...something about hemp or the war or whatever.

(Updating my dossier with pictures.)

Somewhere there's a pet store where they sell dogs exclusively to hippies. They'd carry mostly dirty mutts that love wearing bandanas. And I'm sure they'd make a mint selling little hemp sweaters that you can put on your dog so it can walk around town looking like an asshole.

Slather my naked body in honey

I'm not very good at getting stuff done ahead of time. I can't start a long paper until the night before it's due. If it's a short paper, I start it a couple hours before it's due. This is a terrible idea.

That's like saying, 'Well, I'm not good at jogging, so I'm going to slather my naked body in honey and wait for a bear to chase me until I get in shape.' Every time I wait until the last minute, that's just another handful of honey being rubbed into my chest as I walk toward the woods to die.

I'm getting up at 5am to finish a presentation and a final draft. If I don't make it, the first 10 people to comment on this away message get a toenail off my dead body.

(Bed.)

Trick women into banging lawn mannequins

You know how in that old Axe commercial the lady would spray the man-dummy with Axe body spray and then seconds later she pressed her body up to the dummy because the Axe made her horny? I can only assume that after the cameras stopped rolling, she had sex with that dummy.

So my plan is to put a dummy in my front lawn, then douse it in Axe. Soon women will start having sex with it, and I can throw a big net over them and drag them down the street, offering one to each of my single friends.

I'd do this because I'm a nice enough guy to trick women into banging lawn mannequins just so my single friends can have deodorant-inspired sexual intercourse with strangers.

Commercials are stupid. I'm going to a lab meeting.

(Showering gives you ridiculous thoughts.)

Saturday afternoon, a random woman gave me a free sample container of some snake peel-scented Axe body wash. I normally don't accept soaps from strangers, but I decided I'd accept it as long as I could finally have a body wash that would make me smell like everyone's favorite smell, which is that of a snake's skin that has peeled off. Who doesn't get wistful for their childhood summers at Grandpa's Snake Farm when they get a whiff of some snake peel? Certainly not me, because I not only know what snake peel smells like, but I love it, too.

How long has snake peelbeen an acceptable smell for a person? I just got used to Right Guard making my armpits smell like "sport", but now my body can smell like snake peel? That's ridiculous.

The Gritty Realism in My Dolphin Simulations

Whenever I log in to Second Life, I don't know what to expect. Given that I've seen people have sex, roleplay as animals, gamble away all their money, dominate, submit, and last but not least, urinate while flying, I don't really know what to expect out of this game.

Either way, I'm going to throw dolphins all over this goddamn virtual world and see if anyone can stop me.

If I found dolphins on my lawn in real life, I'd probably just pour some water on them and try to get them to shut the fuck up, as they'd most likely be screaming.

The ones in Second Life, they just rotate and make happy dolphin noises, which totally kills the gritty realism I want from my dolphin simulations.

(Second Life.)

Not many people even know what Second Life is, which is why I've chosen to start a blog documenting my journeys in this somewhat obscure, freakshow of an online game. A link shall be posted soon.

Your Dolphin Garbage is Infinite

Last night in Second Life I put a lot of dolphins all over a beach area.



Well, turns out, in Second Life, one can own land, and the guy who owned that particular IMed me today and said, 'very funny.' Because unlike the eggs with which you pelt your neighbor's car, every item you create in Second Life is marked with your name.

So this guy found about 20 dolphins in his yard and all of them had my name on it. So naturally I'm going to try to see what other kinds of crap I can leave in other people's yards, because with the internet, your dolphin garbage is infinite.

I think 'Your Dolphin Garbage is Infinite' would be a good album title. Possibly for Interrobang.
(bed.)

I've always wanted to call my band Interrobang. For those of you who don't study obscure punctuation marks, an interrobang is "?!", as in, "You hid my insulin WHERE?!"