So this is a administrative type question:  How do we want to use this blog?  I’m sure that the answer is generally general.  After all, this is mainly (as I understand it) a way for everybody to stay in touch.  However, I find myself wanting to post things that are not of universal interest (ie. a short story based in Thermodynamics and Traditional African Religion)

So the question is how should this public space be used?  It’s alot like Pasty’s public restroom issue.  I can keep my little slices of crazy in my own blog so as to keep the air we share free and clear, or I could dump whatever whenever I please.

I leave judgement to the hands of the Tribunal.

En Taro Adun!
-Heath

I’m so god-damned hyped about this movie this movie!  I don’t know how to create new catagories, but if I did, I make one like “Sweet Fucking Jesus” or something.  I know we’ve been hearing about this movie for a while now, but they are doing everything with this movie that I’ve wanted someone to do for a long time.  1) They went back in post-production to films scenes with the intent of changing the Rating from PG-13 to R.  2) They took a parody line posted on the internet and added it to the movie.  3) They changed the froo-froo Hollywood-type title back to the world greatest working title.  I’m going to have to quote Sam L, because he the shit. “I’m guaranteeing that Snakes on a Plane will win best movie next year. Does not matter what else is coming out. New James Bond… no snakes in that! Ocean’s 13… where my snakes at? Shrek the Third… green, but not a snake. No movie shall triumph over Snakes on a Plane. Unless I happen to feel like making a movie called Mo’ Motha-fuckin’ Snakes on Mo’ Motha-fuckin’ Planes.”

God Bless you, Sam L.  God Bless you.

I travelled to my ancestral home this past weekend to visit with family and to hopefully reunite with a long-lost friend of mine who goes by the nom de plum of Sullivan. I did manage to witness his Sullivanity and catch a brief glimpse of his flesh and blood, Mr. Mandrake. I was the mightiest meeting of minds since the inception of this site; the first summit assembling a Tiny God triumvirate in one building and three dimensions.

The next meeting of three such minds could rend this world asunder, so I propose that the population of this world join me in celebrating said occurrence because it could be the last this universe ever sees. Believe me when I say this: Sullivan’s facial hair is as good as advertised in his previous post. Brent’s lack thereof belies his aged wisdom and eternal nature; be not fooled so easily as to acquire his ire by carding him at a tavern!

As much as I basked in the joy of friendship renewed and the joy of two half rounds of golf, I did have to travel some two-and-a-half hours each way on my pilgrimage from my current home to my former. That adds up, for the slower minds in attendance, to a grand total of about five hours. Out of a weekend stretching from Friday eve to Sunday likewise that accounts for a serious percentage of my precious time.

This copious allotment of time is not spent alone, nay! I spend those five hours on the roads of Ohio, replete with construction, imbeciles and dead deer. The deer I am, sadly, used to and the construction I begrudgingly grew up with. The imbeciles, however, change constantly, fluidly, in a perpetual effort to crush my soul and my automobile.

Who else is as cursed as I? Spending five hours out of a weekend vacation with hundreds and thousands of your closest mortal enemies is enough to render even the strongest being into a frothy, steaming liquid of pure viscous hate.
Who else? James Bond, 007, that’s who. Whether it’s golf with Goldfinger, dinner with Scaramanga, or baccarat with any number of SPECTRE goons, only MI6′s famous secret agent hob-nobs with his enemies as much as I.

So how did I learn to stop worrying and love the road? I didn’t. I made it up the title to be clever, not pragmatic. Like Bible God when he was intelligently designing the platypus and the emu. Sure, the okapi doesn’t make any damn sense, but it made Vishnu shoot milk out of his nose. Now that’s comedy.
-M@!

A quick check reveals that Ran is still post-less.  He has (finally) added a comment to the site, but we can probably expect more from him.  Also, Heath and Clay have Author status and can (theoretically) add posts to the site.  That should be entertaining, if not energizing, to the body and soul.  Also, Charlie will be an Author if he ever registers for the bloody site.

So far we have 4 gods with a potential of 4 more transcending their mortal tombs and rising up to the glory where myself, Sullivan, Brent and Chuck  reside.

If anybody is dissatisfied with their username, I am sorry for using your aged monikers.  You cannot change the usernames, but you can change the display names, so let me know if you want to make a switch and I can do it for you.

We have local and global Gravatar access so if you want to use your global Gravatar account you simply set your account email to your Gravatar account email.
If you want a separate, local avatar you can manage that under the Users panel in the site admin.  Let me know if you don’t have access.

This week should see more progress with the design, so let me know if you need access to help with that and if you would like FTP access to the site.
Suggestions for changes can go in the comments.

So earlier today I went and got a haircut for this wedding shindig that I’ll be attending tomorrow afternoon (best haircut ever since the guy said nothing to me for the duration) and upon arriving home I decided that my facial hair needed a little work as I’d rather not half-ass this looking good thing. But my facial hair is like a 50s sitcom in that my Stache and Beard might sleep in the same room but they wouldn’t be caught dead sharing a bed.

Now I’ve tried to live my life believing that I had a wicked goatee going for me, but the mirror would always refute this belief as I look at more poor moustache reaching out longingly for my beard, forever short of reaching its scraggly soulmate. I didn’t want to shave it all off as I’m always disappointed by the results. I needed inspiration. In my book there are two types of moustaches. There’s the “I’m the guy who’s naked except for the tube socks” 70s porn moustache, and then there’s the dashing, dignified ‘Stache that could only be pulled off by, say, a king of thieves.

Having found my muse, I chopped off my ‘Stache’s arms with conviction. This patch of hair on my lip is finally free, no longer having to live in the 5 o’clock shadow of my chin, it stands confident and proud leaving only one last question to be answered:

Who wants a moustache ride?

So I was just walking to the restrooms of my office building when I saw something so horrifying that it simply had to be posted here.

Imagine, if you will, a woman with the saggiest breasts in the world. I know that this is probably not pleasant, but now I want you to imagine this woman wearing a top that covers the necessary amount of nipple, but fails to contain the southern boobular regions and allows them to spill out a bit. That’s pretty gross, isn’t it?

That is what I saw, except I was looking at the woman’s back. She was wearing an open-back top that I can’t even fathom the full horror of, since I didn’t see her from the front (I’m sure that was a lot worse.) There were fat sacks of shoulder flab pouring down her back and restrained by a strip of fabric, which kind of pinched them in such a way that the trough of the pseudobreasts bulged out.

She had back boobs. And they wasn’t pretty.

If I were to walk up to you right now and tell you to shave a highway to your danger zone, you’d probably be somewhat confused. If I were to do the same to my friend Brandi, she would be all like “ROFLMAO!” I was originally going to name this post “The Evolution of an Inside Joke,” but I find that title to be inappropriate since I am about to bring you all in on the fun.

Brandi and I went to King’s Island in Cincinnati last Saturday. It was the first time I had ever been there and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Since the park is owned by Paramount there were plenty of movie-themed rides from which to choose. While standing in line for any ride there were movie trailers and music videos playing on TVs. While standing in line for The Beast (the world’s longest wooden roller coaster for 25 years (BOOYAH!)) the video for Danger Zone by Kenny Loggins came on. I have always been a fan of Top Gun and I was kind of digging the horrible hair Loggins was sporting, but I had never seen that video before and it struck me as lame. When they weren’t showing clips of Top Gun, they were showing Kenny singing in this tiny room and lying on a bed. It was at this point that Brandi and I determined Loggins himself (his genitals, to be more precise) to be the danger zone. It seemed a reasonable conclusion to make since there was nothing else in that little room that appeared to pose any real threat. We also supposed that syphilis was somehow involved.

Throughout the day we probably saw that music video 18,724 times. Every time we laughed a little more about Kenny and his danger zone. Toward the end of the day we finally got around to riding the Top Gun roller coaster. On our way to the line, we spied a large mural depicting some jets doing some dog fighting. It was very exciting. Then we looked a bit closer and noticed that an ad for the Gillette Mach 3 razor had been added to the mural. That was kind of funny. Not super funny, but a little funny.

Several hours later we were in my car heading home. We ended up being stuck in traffic for a pretty long time and we started to turn retarded. You all know what I mean. Toward the end of the day when your body really wants to be asleep but you’re still awake everything becomes hilarious.

So I started to sing. Shave a highway to your danger zone. Gillette Mach 3.

Now you’re in on it. Check out the video here.

I’m trying to think of a way to say “everyone I see driving on the road is a complete fucking git” without alienating my core audience, which is primarily composed of car drivers.  I have two friends over the age of 16 who don’t drive, but since they can’t drive they can’t come visit me.  Since they can’t come visit me, what the fuck do I care what they think?  Sorry Charlie and Joey!

I’ve harped on the matter time and again (on my old site) but nothing sets me off like other people driving cars at me.  I hate people – a lot – but when we get behind the wheels simultaneously it’s like adding the red liquid to the clear liquid in those bombs in Die Hard: With A Vengeance.  By that I mean it is an explosive situation and by the way DH:WAV is an awesome movie because the script rocked and Bruce Willis, Samuel L. Jackson and Jeremy Irons all kicked ass.  Plus, the guy who played Otto the German who stole Ricky the cop’s badge was hilarious!

Here’s a few things I’d like people who aren’t Sam Jackson, Bruce Willis and Jeremy Irons (read: people I hate) to remember:

• If there’s a turning lane, use it. Don’t slow down in front of me when there is a lane dedicated to getting you out of my way.  I am important, so get out of my way ASAP.
• There is no excuse to stay in the fast lane on the highway with your hazard lights on.  If there is something wrong, get out of my fucking way (I am important).  If there is nothing wrong, turn the hazards off because they are distracting and you are an asshole.
• I can accept that you must check your cell phone messages and write text messages while driving but please do not do so while making sharp turns, lane changes or any other complicated maneuvers that involve not wrecking into me.  Eyes on the road, you self centered pricks!
• After getting a speeding ticket for going 80 in a 60 don’t immediately drive 70 in a 55 MPH construction zone with cones on one side and a concrete barricade on the other while driving with your knee as you talk to your girlfriend with your cellphone in one hand and nothing in the other.  Epecially at night.

The last bullet point is specifically targeted at RanJuan but it applies to everyone.  It seems like an unlikely scenario but I guarantee that if I didn’t say something all the cool kids would be doing it in a month or so.  So I guess the central theme of my rant here is that if you are actually retarded you can keep on eating those Crayolas but if you aren’t then drive like a real human with a functioning brain.

hey guys, are you as excited as me that today is the 1.11 patch for world of warcraft?!!? like omg i am so excited! i can hardly contain myself over the thoughts that the servers will be nearly unplayable these next few days, in between the rush of people trying to check out the new content, as well as the general unstableness that these patches generally bring with them.

This is blizzards last big hurrah, the last big content push for the 1-60 game level 60 endgame. Sure, there will probably be a 1.12 and maybe a 1.13 patch, but they will be mostly bugfixes and some retuning for some different classes – but there isn’t any new content (read: dungeons) planned until the fabled expansion hits, which wont be until the fall at best.

so what now? blizzard is touting this new dungeon as the largest one in the game, and how it has so many bosses to be pwning and so much phat loot to be collecting. oh ya, and it will be harder than anything else in the game too. Chances are, if its like the last dungeon they added that was the new “biggest/hardest/phattest dungeon”, you won’t even be able to clear the place for a few months, because they haven’t properly tested it,and the final encounters will still be buggy and unbeatable. During these same few months, blizzard will claim the dungeon works fine, and that you just need to lrn2play, until they patch the place and on that same day guilds around the globe will beat the shit outta that last boss, using the same strategies that didn’t work the week before.

and what then? so you finally can clear through the new mega-uber dungeon, and have collected all the pretty armor and weapons you can, and your character is a total pimp. Now you sit and wait for the expansion to hit, so it can render all the equipment you have collected over the last 2 years pretty worthless, since the level cap will be raised to 70, bringing with it the new uber-mega dungeon, with phatter loots than are even imagineable today.

i have so much to look forward to. anyone care to join me?

Context will help with identification, but it doesn’t always provide an explanation. I can walk into a restroom (at my office, for example) and recognize a smell as having tagged along with a wicked poop. I don’t have to see the poop, hear the poop or (tiny gods forbid!) touch or taste the poop, but I know it’s poop. The great thing about context is that it doesn’t even have to smell like poop; if it’s a wretched hell-funk and I’m in a bathroom then it must therefore be a poop-stink.

Q.E.D.

As I said, context won’t always provide an explanation. In all my life I’ve never manufactured such a scent but I know what it is. I have no idea what you have to do to yourself to make that happen and in a different locale I might not know that that nose nightmare came from a butt. If I had to guess (and I do) I might suppose that it had something to do with the sulphurous and brimstoney end of the world as we know it, but as I can see a urinal, a sink and a lot of mildew I can safely assume that all is well in the world outside of this Men’s room.

So do your coworkers a favour and try to do your business at home if possible. But if you can’t keep it in your large intestine long enough, then go ahead and do your business at the office. Just find a cozy closet or empty office somewhere to do it, because other people have to piss in that bathroom and it smells simply awful.