Making Your Privates Public…

You know, there used to be a time before cell phones existed when people took great pains to do two very important things:

a. Keep their noses out of their neighbors’ business, and

b. Keep certain aspects of their personal lives private.

Apparently, this is no longer true. I won’t go into the near-impossibility of keeping most facets of your life a secret when you actually want to, nowadays (technology has made this somewhat problematic if not damned near impossible). However, one would think that some things about most people’s private lives that should be kept secret would remain safely hidden if only cell phones had not become ubiquitous…

…and if the people who insist on using them in a public setting had the same sense you’re likely to find in a brain-damaged Irish Setter.

Gettin' With the Times...

It was inevitable.

One day I knew that if I had ever wanted to make this collection of diseased rantings a viable commercial enterprise, I would have to get with the program and make it accessible to morons of all stripes.

Weiner Steps on the Weiner...

You knew this was coming. It was unavoidable.

Police question 17-yr old girl who had contact with Weiner.

Gonna resign now, Douchebag, before the cops haul your ass off to jail?

In one of those delicious ironies, as Ipost this, I'm watching Special Report with Bret Baier on Fox, and Kirsten Powers, an ex-girlfriend of Anthony Weiner who's part of Bret's panel this evening, has just been asked to comment on this tidbit. She dodged it nicely,but you could see that she wanted to go home and scrub thoroughly with Brillo.

(H/T JammieWearingFool)

The Sorry Tale of Anthony Weiner…

The most aptly-named man in Washington, D.C. finally admitted to what the even the dumbest amongst us already knew, yesterday, and made a crying spectacle of himself on national television. Anthony Weiner did, indeed, shoot little beefcake photos of himself all over the internet to various women (he says six, but that’s probably no closer to the truth than his insistence that he was ‘hacked’ by right-wing hit squads was). He also admits to some telephonic heavy breathing, which is a vision that has firmly burnt itself into my mind's eye, much to my distress.

The entire apology/self-crucifixion production became surreal when Andrew Breitbart , the man accused of being Weiner’s ersatz hacker just happened to be in the neighborhood, and at the behest of the drooling press took over the event, demanding an apology while informing us that he has even more pictures of Weiner in even more compromising positions. This suggestion makes me fervently hope that my infected mind’s eye will do me a great favor and go blind before those are ever released.

There’s much talk amongst the flapping rectum class on television about Weiner’s ‘political future’. Only in America, and most annoyingly, only in New York, could a Congressman so obviously mislead the public, dissemble so unbelievably brazenly about the facts of his misdeeds, make a public penance in which he has to follow the man who’s been wrongly accused of wronging him, still consider it possible to have a career. Only in New York could such a man, who has a Congressional Ethics hearing or two in his future, probably an irate wife who can’t wait to rape him in the divorce trial (if she doesn’t divorce him after this, even if there’s no actual sex involved, she’s a retard), be considered worthy of having a Political Future.

Sadly, Congressdouche Weiner stands a better than even-money chance of being re-elected as things are now, barring some new revelation that one of his phone/e-mail playmates was underage, or a foreign spy. If it should turn out that one of Weiner’s phone friends was another man, the people of his district – where IQ is measured by that quaint expression ‘room temperature’; after all, they’ve already voted for the most insufferable asshole I’ve ever seen in my entire life six times, so they must be the cream of the crop, stupid-wise – even that wouldn’t stop them from voting for Congressman Chronic Online Masturbator.

Some would see it as an opportunity to vote for the first apparently bi-sexual member of Congress (so far as we know). That’s how liberal they are; voting for Weiner is a badge of courage.

Besides, here in New York we’ve come to expect that out elected officials are criminals, serial adulterers, or sexual deviants, vis-à-vis Rudy Giuliani, Eliot Spitzer, David Paterson, Eric Massa, Chris Lee, and now Anthony Weiner.

Hell, Charlie Rangel never met a tax he didn't write the regs for that he wouldn’t happily dodge, and he’s still in office.

I watched this sorry spectacle yesterday, and wanted to puke. The first vomit-inducing portion was the part where Weiner said “I will not resign”, which I thought was absolutely outrageous. Just a few weeks ago, a New York Republican (Chris Lee) resigned from office after being caught doing the same exact thing that Weiner has done, and there was no week-and-a-half of lying involved, there were no false accusations against a journalist, there wasn’t a ten day ordeal of press conferences where we’re arguing over the meaning of ‘certitude’, and the man in the crosshairs flounders in lawyerly language like Shelley Winters floundered in the flooded ballroom of the Poseidon Adventure.

The second thing that made me want to expel my lunch at terminal velocity was the use of the word ‘apology’. Weiner said ‘apologize’ or ‘I apologize’ what seemed to me to be somewhere in the neighborhood of 200 times. He apologized to his wife, his family, his staff, his ’constituents’ (i.e. the brain-dead legion that would have pulled the lever for him so as to keep the hot-and-cold running food stamps and Section-8 housing flowing, unless he’d admitted to child rape or tossing puppies into a wood chipper), Andrew Breitbart, but at no time did it ever appear to me to be sincere. Perhaps that’s because I have an instinctual dislike for Weiner that rivals the hatred between cats and dogs, or maybe it’s a by-product from having to listen to him lie out of both sides of his mouth, and his rectum, simultaneously, on ever subject under the Sun for a decade-plus.

Weiner claims to take ‘responsibility’ – another word he used profusely and unbelievably -- for what he’s done, but he truly hasn’t. Had Weiner a responsible bone(r) in his body, he would have resigned yesterday. That’s what responsible, truly sorry people do. Then again, he’s a democrat, so there you go; democrats are neither responsible, nor hardly ever sorry about anything.

Anthony Weiner didn’t ‘apologize’ profusely yesterday because he’s genuinely sorry. He’s apologizing and paying lip-service to accepting responsibility because he’s been caught. He’s apologizing because he got caught in such a stupid way, doing such a stupid thing. He’s apologizing because it’s part of a ’damage control’ operation, and the public relations experts told him that it’s time to come clean and at least appear to be contrite (note, however, that Weiner only ‘comes clean’ after irrefutable evidence is suggested of his guilt. Without it, he would have continued this charade for years to come). That series of apologies you saw yesterday was not of a penitent man, baring his soul to the world, begging forgiveness.

That was a man who’s come home drunk at three in the morning, smelling of perfume, lipstick smeared on his collar, and the used condom still stuck in his zipper, begging his wife to unlock the door, pleading ‘Honey, can't we talk this over?’.

Men, as a rule, do things because they can, or because they want to. Scale Everest, split atoms, fly to the Moon, or fuck the secretary with the big tits, and many of them never actually stop to consider the implications or consequences of their actions, especially where the sex drive and ego are concerned. We are biologically hard-wired to take risks, to ignore doubts and fears, and screw everything that moves. Nature made us this way, and it’s only a very smart or dedicated man who is able to control his baser urges.

When you look like Anthony Weiner, the very poster child for birth control, and have the arrogance that comes with power and the fawning adulation of the press – perhaps the laziest and dumbest class of people yet discovered -- that intelligence and dedication quickly flies right out the window. Add the possibility of sex to ego and poor impulse control, and you’re headed for disaster. Facilitate the roller-coaster-to-Hell with a medium that provides (some think) a measure of anonymity and distance, and you’re talking a sure-fire atomic explosion of stupidity.

Weiner’s first mistake was to get full of himself. His second mistake was to fail to engage his critical thinking skills (being a liberal democrat, we may question as to whether he possesses any). His third mistake was to choose mediums where the possibility of getting caught was somewhat remote (although, as we all know, nothing is private in Cyberspace, and even phone bills can be quite instructive). His fourth mistake was to make a habit of it. The final mistake was to believe that he could scrub the record clean, after the fact, brazenly lie about the entire…ahem…affair…and then, after the dust settles, continue life much as he did before, maybe taking a few extra precautions but not much more.

I can promise you: even after being put in a delicate, to say the least, position by the initial discovery of Weiner’s underpants pictures, Weiner would have gone right back to Greasing the Pelican and sending dick pictures online just as soon as decently possible. It’s a compulsion; a mere routine, it all becomes a part of Life, just like the morning commute, the tuna-salad-on-whole-wheat for lunch everyday, the three-martinis after work, the evening newscast, and brushing your teeth before bed.

No, Anthony Weiner was never sorry enough to realize just what he was doing and then stop doing it; he’s only sorry that we found out what he does with his Blackberry, and the thought that the public might believe he’s Yankin’ his Crank While Texting finally got that long-forgotten-and-suppressed shame reflex to kick in.

So, what’s next for Congresscritter Weiner? Well, to judge from past sex scandals (this may be the first where no actual sex, only the suggestion of it, took place. See how the Internet and social networking are changing our lives? When a politician says “I did not have sex with that woman…” and a computer is involved, you can actually half-way believe him! Weiner might give a whole new meaning to the term ‘Palm Pilot’.), the step after admission is usually, and oh-so-painfully-predictably rehab.

Congressman Weiner may be the first famous (or is it now infamous?) Internet Sex Addict. When Weiner makes that announcement -- I'm a sex addict -- his wife will be standing right next to him (somehow, the wives must always be seen as standing by their man, even when their man is a complete douchebag. Although her absence yesterday was telling); there will be the usual rigmarole about personal reflection, ‘my Faith in God’, and ‘coming to terms with the realization that I have a problem’, but dickhead still won’t resign, naturally.

There is a Congressional Ethics Committee investigation coming. Considering that democrats usually don’t find anything wrong with deviant behavior by one of their members, it’s merely a formality. It’s a kabuki play intended to lull the public into the false belief that, indeed, Congress can be trusted to police itself, which is complete and utter bullshit given the history of Congressional Ethics Investigations of the last 40 years. Weiner will receive but a light tap upon both wrists and told to sin no more. If they’re smart, they’ll take his Blackberry and Smartphone away, and cancel his subscription to AOL (people still have those?).

Despite all the public mea culpa, despite the coming-soon orgy of putting all his psychoses on public display, despite all the talk about ‘responsibility’, deep down in what passes for his black soul Anthony Weiner still thinks he’s done nothing wrong. He still believes he’s a victim…of something…but not of hubris or stupidity. Somewhere in his tiny little mind, he still feels justified in what he has done, and can’t believe people would make such a big deal out of such a little thing (I mean the scandal, not his Little Thing, per se). He’s wrong.

We’re the victims here. A sitting Congresscritter making a casual mistake with his send options on Twitter has just told everyone in the Solar System that he’s dumber than dogshit, and ripe for blackmail. He’s just told the American public that far from his usual insistence that he’s ‘fighting for the common folk’ he’s instead spending a great deal of time taking pictures of himself in the buff, e-mailing them hither-and-yon, hitting up women half his age. His subsequent actions – trying to delete the incriminating photographs, inventing a weak conspiracy theory cover story out of whole cloth, accusing an innocent man of potential criminality, stonewalling, misleading the public and press, lying to his wife, and the Staff or other members of Congress who may have defended him – show the character, or rather, lack thereof, of the man. If he’s capable of lying about this, what else has Anthony Weiner lied about? If he’s capable of going to these extreme lengths to avoid having the truth come out, what does that say about the benefits or veracity of anything he’s ever voted on?

And finally, his Twitter Bunnies are going to be exposed to public scrutiny. Two already have. I wonder if either will make an attempt to find Monica Lewinski and ask her how her career and life have gone after she was identified as the paramour of a once-powerful man. Everywhere she goes, men probably ask her to do her famous ‘Cigar Trick’, and automatically assume she’s up for a little ‘Executive Action’ at a moment’s notice. Monica had at least one saving grace in her favor: the Internet was in its infancy, and public memory is often short. For these women, once they’re publicly identified, Weiner’s Weiner will be permanently stapled to every job application they ever fill in.

They might as well have actually done the deed for real, because for all intents and purposes Anthony Weiner has shackled each with a permanent, electronic, Pearl Necklace.

And the Happiest Man in the World Today is Arnold Schwarzenegger, because Anthony Weiner just took the spotlight off of him, at least for the foreseeable future.

Happy Valentine's Day...

Here's a roundup of Valentine's Day News You Can Use, with some demented commentary from Your's Truly.

Although today is supposed to be about the expression of love and affection, we're often reminded that this is not always exactly the case. Whatever it's original purpose, or supposed virtues, Valentine's Day long ago ceased to be about Love and Romance, and is well on it's way to becoming one of those things that quickly becomes a hell of a lot more trouble than it's probably worth.

For example, if you live in Malaysia, Valentine's Day is not a holiday for the...ahem...faint of heart. Because instead of a cheeky greeting card, one is much more likely to receive a fatwa (religious edict) warning against the consequences of immoral behavior, defined as: perhaps showing an ankle, a smooch on the cheek given to someone not your spouse, engaging in decadent "Western" behavior.

Because the origin of Valentine's Day lay in the Christian calendar, of course, and because with the advance of time and the relaxation of sexual mores common in Western culture, it's gone from a religious celebration to a full-bore freight train of promiscuity and material indulgence. If you're a Muslim, these things are bad for you, and can get you killed.

Then again, the words 'Malaysian Islamic Economic Development Department' is an oxymoron. Like 'Democratic Party'. There can be no economic development, Islamic or otherwise, without freedom of thought, expression or conscience. Be that as it may, it seems that Allah frowns upon displays of affection that don't involve shagging a goat in a Scriptually-approved manner. One wonders if somewhere in the Middle East today, some poor woman wrapped head-to-toe in a carpet, and subjected to daily beatings, isn't giving her paramour a heart-shaped (that's actual human-heart-shaped, not that vile Westernized thingy that's rounded at the tops and pointy at the bottom) box of plastic explosives with a lovey-dovey note attached that reads "from your Hostage in Love..."

Somewhere, I'm thinking there's a self-appointed Islamic Morality Hall Monitor disguised as a Malaysian Islamic Economic honcho nodding in agreement with that sort of sentiment.

By the way, when anything with the word 'Islamic' incorporated in it's title says it'll be 'carrying out morality checks' what it really means is that they will beat, maim or kill anyone who doesn't live and behave according to their mentally-constipated worldview. Now there's love for you! And really, what does the 'Islamic Economic Development Council' have to do with morality in the first place, unless it's a deliberate obfuscation of both fact and intent?

And, of course, nothing says "I Love You" in the Islamic World like a good beheading. Even if it takes place in Buffalo.

Ah, the things we do for Love, eh?

If 7th-century-inspired notions of what constitutes love just don't float your boat, you can always settle for the 21st Century American equivalent, which, of course, involves computers, Budweiser, a pre-date "compatibility" questionnaire that has all the romance of a job interview and rectal exam rolled-into-one, and a gross violation of your personal privacy. But hey: it'll help you get laid on this special day. That is, after all, the purpose of the whole exercise, right?

This pretty much proves something that I have investigated (and often proved) many times in the last 20+ years: if you asked ten women, at random, to make the Beast with Two Backs, you'll get at least three positive responses on any given evening. Apparently, if you throw some beer into the mix, your odds of success more than double.

I figured that out at the age of 19, and didn't need a freakin' computer to do it. Nowadays, people are so intellectually-lazy and gadget-oriented (read: dependant) that they won't even fart , let alone fuck, unless there's an app for that. If it wasn't for the fact that I, eventually, Grew Up and put on my Big Boy Pants, I'd still be out there when the mischievous mood struck, chatting up would-be conquests ten at a time.

Had it down to a near-science, too.

(Note to all those who think this is a great idea: it gets boring after a very short time. Mostly because it's waaaaay too easy, and the majority of your takers barely have basic brainstem functions.)

Naturally, this would not be America if there wasn't a small minority of deranged dipshits out there who believe that no activity in the pursuit of your 'soulmate' is too extreme. Even a 24-hour murder spree.

I'm certain that somewhere, there's a clinical psychologist who's furiously trying to explain how stabbing your intended to death is just the mouth-foaming sociopath's way of expressing affection, and we just need to be tolerant of this 'different' manifestation of love, and try to extrapolate this stupidity into a pro-Gay-Marriage argument.

We should stab that so-called doctor to death, too.

As for my own Valentine's Day celebration, well...there won't be one this year. The lady who would be my heart's desire is unavailable to me, alas. Mostly by choice, because she's as big a lunatic as I am, and that just ain't healthy for either of us. As for the Other One that I was, until recently, 'keeping company' with, I tossed her overboard just as soon as I heard those words that now make me break out in a cold sweat and want to reach for a flame-thrower;

"I really, really need your help..."

That 'help', incidentally, didn't involve changing a light bulb, fixing a flat tire, or squashing an inconvenient spider in the bathtub, but was rather an attempt to get me to take some responsibility (i.e. do all the heavy lifting) in 'helping' her sort out her (egregious) personal and familial issues. Sorry, but I'm just not equipped for that anymore; The White Knight has finally hung up his spurs for good. If I'm spending all my time taking care of your issues, then I'm not taking care of mine, thanks very much. Besides, I wasn't ever going to marry you, I don't think, and your kid regards me as the next best thing to Rudolf Eichmann.

Romance, it seems, is dead. What a pity.

In a day-and-age where we're sold the idea that the heart-shaped box of Russel Stover's is the end-all-be-all, where 'Every Kiss begins With Kay', Wal-Mart tries to pass itself off as your Valentine's Day Headquarters by flogging cheap jewelry that no one with taste and a median income near the National Average would buy without chemical stimulus, where the Vermont Teddy Bear is sold as the key to unlocking the vault wherein is hidden the Pearl of Great Price, True Romance is but a few mouse-clicks away on E-Harmony, and where "do for me what I won't do for myself" becomes the basis for, and only purpose of, a one-sided "relationship" that will eventually end in disaster for both parties, it's no fucking wonder.

I think back to simpler days when I used to write a young lady who had snagged my affections love letters. She thought they were the Greatest Thing Ever, and a few days before she married someone else, she told me she had kept every last one...and still read them regularly. I wouldn't be surprised to find that she still had and read them all, 20 years later, because what passes for romance these days is kitchy, tied to outrageous displays of grossly-conspicuous consumption, and always contains at least three pathologies that should have half the country on a psychiatrist's couch somewhere.

It's all become way too impersonal, tied to empty display, or centered upon a formulation wherein personal growth is directly proportional to how well you manage to slough your personal problems off on someone else and frame the issue in terms of "if you love me, you'll do it..."

Excuse me while I vomit at the thought of Valentine's Day.

Whatever happened to those simpler times, when the free Expression of Love -- for it's own sake -- didn't come with a commercial, a political stance, religious repression, physical violence, or it's own chapter in the DSM IV?

Happy Valentine's Day, America. See most of you in the local meat market tomorrow...after you've gotten your Chromium-plated Chocloate Diamond pendant, and shaken off your beer goggles, assuming we haven't been marked for death by the local Islamic Economic Development folks for our sinful, lusty apostasy.

Update: What Women Really Want. If you believe this, you're a douchebag. (H/T Closet Conservative). Probably, it's more like some sick bitch doing research on how to snag a queer dude, and 'convert' him into suitable husband material just so that they can share wardrobes.

Also, What Women Really, Really Want: The Ins-and-Outs of the Marriage Proposal.

Personally, if I ever had a chick who demanded that a Broadway production be made of my marriage proposal as proof of my devotion, I'd do it...but only so I could take the ring back and tell her to go fuck herself -- you selfish bitch -- in front of her friends and family right at the moment of her greatest triumph.

Free Wi-Fi in the Slums...

Leave it to San Francisco to come up with something this stupid:

Free Wi-Fi to Be Offered in City Housing Projects.

Next week's Headlines in San Francisco:

"Mayor Gavin Newsome Stunned By Rampant Wi-Fi Gear Theft"

"Laptop Theft up 300% in San Francisco; Mayor and Police at a Loss as To Why"

"Childhood Obesity in SF up 500%, Mayor Blames Endless Hours of Websurfing"

"Criminal Probe of City Wi-Fi Contracts Connects Mayor to Campaign Donors"

Screw UNICEF...

...because Africa is apparently lousy with wealthy orphans!

I get 7 or 8 of these Nigerian Scams a week, and they get progressively better with the advance of time. They all follow the same predictable pattern, though. The first clue is that it seems all these poor-little-rich-girls have masculine first names.

A young woman in (insert Third-world shithole here) has just finished her prayers. This, I find amazing because to guess from all the outcry about African overpopulation, you get the idea that any girl who has the time to pray is probably even too ugly for an African man to do the nasty with. This, after all, is how one usually achieves the sort of overpopulation common to the poorest nations of Africa. Why, the problems attendant to all that uninterrupted fucking going on over there are so serious that American Stimulus dollars had to be spent to deal with the horrific consequences.

Anyway, the point is that we apparently have the only praying virgin on the African continent writing us e-mails, and this new one happens to be in an extremely acute emotional state, as we shall soon see.

Anyways, you'll find that this chaste and pious young thing is the recently-orphaned daughter of Minister X of the Ministry of XY&Z. It doesn't even matter which Ministry Daddy worked for; the Ministries and Names and Countries in these scams are interchangeable. Daddy is always killed in a plane crash (of which there seem to be an awful lot in Africa), and just so you understand that a) yes, they do have airplanes in Africa, and b) yes, they sometimes do, indeed crash, a hyperlink is included to a news story on the crash in question, or at least to a crash.

Being an African Minister for Anything is a job as dangerous as New York City Gypsy Cab driver, 'twould seem. If I were ever appointed (because they don't have real elections in Africa, no matter what Jimmy Carter says, it would have to be an appointment from this week's tin pot dictator) to, say, Minister for Lint Collection in Ivory Coast, I would positively demand that the first condition under which I would take this job is no fucking flying.

Because all African Government ministers die in plane crashes, these days. Not like the good old days when they used to get shot to pieces in front of the Ministry of Juicy Yellow Fruits building, or catch Ebola touring the rain forest, or get the "bad" oyster while overindulging in the midst of their starving citizens. But I digress...

So now this orphaned waif, all alone in the world, always makes an incredible discovery; it's usually "I looked in my father's briefcase and found...", which leads one to ask "must have been some damned good luck that Dad didn't have his briefcase with him when the plane crashed, huh?". Always, serendipity takes a hand in the course of a young orphan's life, and she finds out that she's fabulously wealthy.

Because Daddy provided for her, probably by siphoning off Western Aid meant to feed hungry AIDS victims (you find one every seven feet or so over there), and bring some solace to the victims of Civil War and religious persecution, drought, and whatever fifteen-thousand plagues strike Africa this month because heaven forbid anyone ever takes a fucking vitamin over there, washes properly, or learns what soap is, or the proper rules of basic sanitation -- you'd have to stop fucking long enough to do that -- and depositing his gains in that Cayman Islands of Africa, Burkina Faso.

Upon discovering her new-found bounty, the young girl travels to Burkina Faso to speak personally with the bank manager, who tells her that, unfortunately, her father has left instructions that the money he left for her not be released because of bureaucratic mix ups, improper documentation, a requirement for marriage, etc. I gather that Holocaust victims were given similar, heart-wrenching treatment by Swiss Banks, post-war. Whereupon our damsel-in-distress does what any young girl who can't get access to her multi-million-dollar inheritance does.

Write anonymous e-mails to complete strangers on the internet, seeking their help usually with the hint of a marriage of convenience. Once the intended victim is caught on this hook, the predictable happens: she'll need a secure bank account in the States to transfer the funds to; can she use yours? If so, what is the account number? She'll need a valid address; what is yours? Phone number? A few weeks later: The Bank in Burkina Faso cannot transfer the funds without your Social Secuity number. What is it? And then when she's, amazingly, been granted a visa to come fulfill her pledge to you, she can't afford a plane ticket. What is your credit card number, so that she may purchase one?

Oh, and they all have evil uncles out to kill them, too.

Classic.

What's really amazing is;

a) there's someone in Africa who has enough time between starving to death, or dying of a preventable disease, to write these things, and

b)Someone always falls for this scam. Someone must, or it would have stopped a very long time ago.

Wrote about it last week, here. This week's is almost the same exact letter (hyperlinks removed for security):

Hello Dearest,
I am writing this mail to you with tears and sorrow from my heart. With due respect trust and humanity, I appeal to you to exercise a little patience and read through my letter I feel quite safe dealing with you in this important business having gone through your remarkable profile, honestly I am writing this email to you with pains, tears and sorrow from my heart, I will really like to have a good relationship with you and I have a special reason why I decided to contact you, I decided to contact you due to the urgency of my situation, My name is Miss. Nathaniel Kipkalya Kones, 24yrs old female and I held from Kenya in West Africa.

My father was the former Kenyan road Minister. He and Assistant Minister of Home Affairs Lorna Laboso had been on board the Cessna 210, which was headed to Kericho and crashed in a remote area called Kajong'a, in western Kenya . The plane crashed on the Tuesday 10th, June, 2008. You can read more about the crash through the below (hyperlink removed for safety).

After the burial of my father, my stepmother and uncle conspired and sold my father's property to an Italian Expert rate which the shared the money among themselves and live nothing for me. One faithful morning, I opened my father's briefcase and found out the documents which he have deposited huge amount of money in one of the banks in Burkina Faso with my name as the next of kin. I travelled to Burkina Faso to withdraw the money for a better life so that I can take care of myself and start a new life, on my arrival, the Bank Director whom I met in person told me that my father's instructions to the bank is that the money would only be release to me when I am married or present a trustee who will help me and invest the money overseas. I am in search of an honest and reliable person who will help me and stand as my trustee so that I will present him to the Bank for transfer of the money to his bank account overseas. I have chosen to contact you after my prayers and I believe that you will not betray my trust.

But rather take me as your own sister or daughter. Though you may wonder why I am so soon revealing myself to you without knowing you, well I will say that my mind convinced ed me that you may be the true person to help me. More so, I will like to disclose much to you if you can help me to relocate to your country because my stepmother has threatened to assonate me. The amount is ($12.8 USD) Million United State Dollars and I have confirmed from the bank in Burkina Faso on my arrival.

You will also help me to place the money in a more profitable business venture in your Country. However, you will help by recommending a nice University in your country so that I can complete my studies. It is my intention to compensate you with 30% of the total money for your services and the balance shall be my capital in your establishment. As soon as I receive your positive response showing your interest I will put things into action immediately. In the light of the above, I shall appreciate an urgent message indicating your ability and willingness to handle this transaction sincerely.

Awaiting your urgent and positive response. Please do keep this only to your self for now until the bank has transferred the fund. I beg you not to disclose it till I come over because I am afraid of my wicked stepmother who has threatened to kill me and have the money alone, I thank God Today that am out from my country (KENYA) but now In (Burkina Faso) where my father deposited these money with my name as the next of Kin. I have the documents for the claims.

Yours Sincerely,

Miss Nathaniel Kipkalya Kones

I'm Thinking of Marrying Her, Seriously...

I get the weirdest e-mail. Most of it, of course, is utter crap -- adverts, people telling me I'm an asshole (yes, I know...and proud of it, too, thank you), lots of updates from the various news sites and organizations that I subscribe to (Dear Dick Morris: all these e-mails are starting the get creepy. It's almost like you're stalking me!), and this past two months, the absolute worst of e-mails related to the 25th anniversary of my graduating high school class.

No, I did not attend. Nor did I answer any of the literally hundreds of "Hey, what are you doing now?" requests, or do anything more than delete all the senseless chatter that cluttered up my inbox. The truth is that I viscerally hated about 95% of the people I went to high school with (they were mostly Guidos, and wanna-be Guidos) back in the mid-80's, and of the remaining 5%, a good number of you are already dead, sadly (including one young man, a close friend, murdered before his 24th birthday. When his body was found and reported to the authorities, it turned out that it was his detective brother who was first on the scene to investigate. It's a sad tale all around). I seriously don't want to see you people, especially not after 25 years have passed and you've all become uglier and dumber, just so I can hear about your three divorces and two prostate operations over your eleventh drink.

I'm off track. Anyway, suffice to say that my mailbox simply overflows with spam e-mails, on a good day, and I ignore every last scrap...unless there's one that's just too damned good to pass up. This morning, we happen to have what may be one of the better Spam Scams I've seen to date.

For I have received an e-mail from Miss Adeliza Justin Yak. From the Sudan. Of course you've heard of her; her father is...or rather, was...the Minister for SPLA Affairs and Special Advisor to President Salva Kir of South Sudan for Decentralization, a man killed in the prime of his life, in an unfortunate plane crash. We've all heard of him, of course. I remember the people crying in the streets of Cleveland, Ashtabula, Chillicothe, Intercourse and East Reacharound when the illustrious Minister Yak was killed. Why, I almost have to dab a tear or two from the corner of my eye just thinking about it now.

And just like John F. Kennedy, I'm sure people all over the world will very soon begin playing that game. You know the one;

"Where were you when the Minister for SPLA Affairs and Special Advisor to President Slava Kir of South Sudan for Decentralization was killed?"

Anyways, it seems that Minister Yak left a fortune in a foreign bank to his daughter, who seems to pray a lot (First Red Flag!), and then attempt to contact complete strangers over the internet (Second Red Flag!), who will then sponsor her so that she can emigrate to the West (Third Red Flag! She's in it for the Green Card!) with $5.6 million bucks.

Here is the e-mail in question (I have edited out the hyperlinks for safety):

My Dearest one,

Hi, My name is Adeliza Justin Yak, 23years old originated from Sudan. I decide to contact you after my prayers, I really want to have a good relationship with you. My father Dr. Justin Yak was the former Minister for SPLA Affairs and Special Adviser to President Salva Kiir of South Sudan for Decentralization. My father Dr.Justin Yak and my mother including other top Military officers and top govaernment officials had been on board when the plane crashed on Friday May 02, 2008. (Link to news article on this crash removed by me)

After the burial of my father, my uncle conspired and sold my father's properties to a Chinease Expatriate and live nothing for me. On a faithful morning, I opened my father's briefcase and found out the documents which he have deposited huge amount of money in one bank in Burkina Faso with my name as the next of kin. I traveled to Burkina Faso to withdraw the money so that I can start a better life and take care of myself. On my arrival, the Branch manager of the Bank whom I met in person told me that my father's instruction to the bank was the money be release to me only when I am married or present a trustee who will help me and invest the money
overseas.

I have chosen to contact you after my prayers and I believe that you will not betray my trust. But rather take me as your own sister. Though you may wonder why I am so soon revealing myself to you without knowing you, well, I will say that my mind convinced me that you are the true person to help me. More so, I will like to disclose much to you if you can help me to relocate to your country because my uncle have threaten to assassinate me. The amount is $5.6 Million and I have confirmed from the bank in Burkina Faso. You will also help me to place the money in a more profitable business venture in your Country.

However, you will help by recommending a nice University in your country so that I can complete my studies. It is my intention to compensate you with 10% of the total money for your services and the balance shall be my capital in yourestablishment. As soon as I receive your interest in helping me, I will put things into action immediately. In the light of the above, I shall appreciate an urgent message indicating your ability and willingness to handle this transactionsincerely. Please do keep this only to your self. I beg you not to disclose it till i come over because I am affraid of my wicked uncle who has threatened to kill me.

Sincerely yours, Miss Adeliza Justin Yak

I'll bet that right this very second, there's some extremely desperate loser reading that message, and masturbating over it. He's probably also trying to work out how many plastic blow-up dolls and how much Vaseline he can purchase with that half-a-million bucks, to support his chronic masturbation habit. That's the sad part.

You know, I can honestly say that I've always wanted a wife from a Third-world shithole where swatting flies and dodging bubonic plague were the national pastimes. Especially one who probably prays five times a day, and has a death squad on her tail.

I'm smarter than that, but I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that there are millions of people stupid enough to actually buy this line of crap, and who will respond to that e-mail. Most of those responses will be along the lines of "How big are your tits?"or "What are you wearing now", which means that some douchebag in the African criminal enterprise that originated this scam has to wade through a few thousand cell-phone-quality dick pictures before he finds that one asshole who finally takes the bait.

There are people alive that are, in fact, that dumb; I know, because I used to work for them at Citigroup.

But what I really find strange about that particular message (and disturbing, too) is that Google saw fit to mark it as Spam (and perhaps as dangerous) before it even entered my mailbox...but then they sent it anyway. What the fuck is up with that?

By the way, Fellas, although she sounds like an absolutely fabulous catch, I don't think Miss Yak really exists; she's just a part being played by some dude in Nigeria, probably. Hate to burst your bubble that way, but what can I say? I care.

Electronic Heroin...

I railed the other day against the evils of Facebook and Twitter. Personally, I find those stupid little beeping things to be just about the deadliest tools mankind has ever invented. Worse than the Atomic Bomb, the AK-47, and American Idol put together. Andrea Peyser in today's NYPost agrees, and tells of one particular horror story of the Social Networking Age.

It's bad enough that, for example, here in New York we have had to pass laws against people using a cell phone in a moving vehicle, but we've had to take it step further and pass laws against texting while driving. You can hardly walk fifty feet in this city without running into some self-important douche with a Bluetooth stuck to his ear. You can't sit quietly on the subway or the bus without your ears being assaulted by a variety of ringtones, buzzes and beeps, and the absolute worst, being privy -- against your will -- to half of someone else's conversation, because Heaven Forbid they should have to call someone back because they can't hear them. No, it's best just to scream over the noise of the ferryboat into your little box, because the complete stranger sitting 11 rows behind you still doesn't know every detail of your boring little life.

You can't buy anything without a cashier asking for your cell number or e-mail address. You can't ask people for directions, because thanks to personal GPS systems or apps, they don't know the streets of their hometown anymore...even in neighborhoods they've lived in for a million years. Nowadays, we just follow the flashing lights on the cell. People don't even exchange phone numbers anymore: my nephew has a girlfriend that he never calls, but I'll bet he has the strongest thumbs I've ever seen...from all that texting they do together.

I got a note from a neighbor a few days ago regarding my wayward trash cans (the Sanitation men were rather careless with them...again...I gather). Right there on that little piece of paper, my neighbor (I guess she's about 40, and a mother) had written "LOL" and put an emoticon (those little internet smiley faces) next to her signature. Moron.

My sister has somehow managed to do the impossible. Yesterday, I saw her carry on five conversations...at once. She had her husband on the house phone, one of her Little League moms on the cell. She answered a text message on the BlackBerry, an IM in her AOL session, all while sending a fax.

What was she faxing?

A letter of complaint to her cell company. It seems they charged her too much for text messaging,and she was sending THEM a copy of their own contract to prove it.

It's gotten so bad, that people don't even speak to each other anymore unless there's an electronic contrivance involved. Personally, this PC is the only compromise I've made. I don't own a cell (refuse to carry one), I don't use an online "social" service anymore. I don't Facebook or MySpace, and I haven't touched my LinkedIn page in a year. Won't pick up a BlackBerry. I don't feel the need to be"connected"to anything...ever. I never feel as if I'm missing anything; you can still leave a message at the sound of the tone -- I'll get it...eventually -- and I've had the same (singular) e-mail address for a decade now.

I don't beep. I don't buzz. I don't vibrate. I'm not Social Networked, and not only do I NOT feel like an outcast, I'm fucking ecstatic about the fact. It's a badge of honor, to me.

But, I can speak. In fact, I actually LIKE to talk to people. I can carry on the most extraordinary conversations. I can talk your ear off, if you let me. And guess what else I can do with this wonderful command of the Art of Conversation?

Meet Women.

Lots of them, in fact. Without having to see them online, or browse a rogues gallery of mugshots in the Social Network thingamajig. I can actually ask them out without feeling odd because there hasn't been several months of text messages between us and we haven't "friended" each other. I get to evaluate them all by myself, instead of relying upon the often-confused opinion of my online homies responding to my internet poll. They love to talk, you know, and they enjoy the give-and-take of real conversation.

Try that with a phone stuck in your ear.

This fabulous power of conversation makes it easier to exchange bodily fluids...instead of emoticons. This amazing power of speech, the ability to relate to another on a human level, simply amazes others who see it in action. It's a wonder: it reminds me that I'm human. It's not antiseptic. I actually enjoy it; there is no distance involved. Conversation is a lost art, and all that electronic whizzbangery does nothing except to ensure it will remain lost -- and make the rest of you progressively dumber, and emotionally sterile.

Facebook is the End of Civlization...

If you want to see the biggest fucking losers on the planet, try looking for them on Facebook. Perhaps the only people worse than Facebookers (Facebookees? Facefuckers?) are the Twitter assholes.The really insane thing about both is that these walking anuses are not only laboring under the gross misapprehension that I have a burning desire to know the intimate details of their uninteresting lives, but that I need pictures of it all, too, and require an update every minute of every goddamned day.

I've always been proud of my ability to basically ignore that which is wildly popular with the general public. After all, the general public is a bunch of self-interested little prats,possessed of slug-like intelligence, and very little in the way of good taste. It is the General Public, after all, which has made Jersey Shore the phenomenon that it is. It is the General Public which continuously clamors for ever-lower-common-denominator forms of entertainment: Fear Factor, Sixteen and Pregnant, Jerry Springer, Facebook...and gets it!

Too many people, with too large an opinion of themselves, with too much free time, and too many options to transmit their mental slag to a drooling public which is often just as stupid. The Internet and modern communications, for all the great things they allow us to do, are too easily abused by mouth-breathing nosepickers.

(Excluding Lunatic bloggers,of course. We provide a valuable public service.)

It is the Facebok aficionados who brought us Barack Obama and Sarah Palin, and patted itself on it's collective back for being so....cool? Progressive? Unbiased? Patriotic?

Puerile simpletons, the lot.

One of the most depressing aspects of 21st Century America is that this is, increasingly, a society run by twits, for the benefit of twits, and never once does anyone ever seem to realize just what fucking twits they themselves truly are. The major drawback to our modern culture and society is that it has now become possible for complete idiots to not only survive, but to flourish, very often with little-to-no conscious effort on their own behalf. We have created a society where one can live quite well -- if completely oblivious -- by just existing. These are the people who somehow think everyone else simply needs to know all about them in he same way a diabetic needs insulin...and even cares to.

These are the people drawn to Facebook...like moths to the flame.

I mean, you DO know what people do on Facebook, right? It's where college co-eds (people who are supposed to be reasonably intelligent) secretly take pictures of their sorority sisters sitting on the toilet and post them for the entire planet (and every potential rapist and pervert) to see. It's where those insane people who insist on dressing up their pets in gay costumes share their special brand of stupidity. It's where people will share the most intimate details of their lives with millions of complete strangers, with no regard for their own privacy and security, and very often, with absolutely no sense of modesty. Facebook is where the desperate near-suicides congregate for one last go-round of the entire "NOTICE ME!!!!" drama-insanity before they finally figure out that no one really gives a shit, and then they go off meekly to eat that shotgun barrel.

It's where that ubiquitous Lone Gunman posts his final manifesto before he goes out and commits Suicide-by-Cop, taking out a few dozen innocents in the process.

You never see greasy-looking men shuffling along the streets in over-sized overcoats, waiting for little children to come by so that they may expose themselves to the unsuspecting tykes; they have Facebook for that now. A very valuable accoutrement in the child molester's toolbox, indeed.

Facebook is gold-plated proof of the old saw (I think it was H.L. Mencken, the Grandmaster Douchebag of his generation, who said it) that "no one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public". If you Facebook, in my estimation, you're a big, stupid douche with too much free time, and no self-esteem, screaming for attention in Cyberspace because screaming for attention in Reality doesn't seem to get you any. Get a fucking clue. Get a fucking life.

Nothing, however, can truly describe the special kind of bedwetting doofus one finds on Facebook better than the bedwetting doofuses themselves. We all know of the gay Rutgers University student driven to jump from the George Washington Bridge when his"friends" outed him on Facebook...as a joke. If that didn't get you to start wondering whether Facebook was really a good thing, a complete waste of time, or a ticking time bomb in the hands of the dumbest people on Earth, there's this story:

Italian Police Investigate Burglary of Virtual Home.

Yeah,not like there's a whole lot of Mafiosi or illegal-alien-Muslim-terrorists-in-training roaming the streets of Sicily, right? I'm glad the Italian police have time for this sort of thing; taking an obviously stupid person seriously.

If that doesn't have you shaking your head, try this one:

Mom Kills Baby for Interrupting Farmville.

Check out the picture (probably taken from her own Facebook page, no doubt!) of the Killer Mom: does that look like a sane individual to you? Hell, does that even look like an attractive individual? I'm almost shocked that someone was actually capable of keeping his eyes shut long enough (and keep his lunch long enough) to make that absolute beauty queen a mother (proving once again that some men are absolute goats, and would fuck a catcher's mitt, if it held still long enough). What makes me...shake...my head even more than this story, are the absolute numbskulls who voted that story "Hilarious" on Newser.com. Those sick and twisted bastards are probably on Facebook, too.

That's what's waiting for you on Facebook: people who cannot separate fantasy from reality, and someone who would violently shake an infant, smoke a cigarette, and then shake the kid to death for interrupting her online agricultural experience -- and a bunch of douchebags who find that sort of thing side-splitting, pee-your-pants funny.

Facebook, like Islam, is a threat to civilization. And instead of stringing up the idiots who invented this new form of Electronic Heroin, we made them rich -- and celebrate them in feature films.

I shudder to think of a future run by absolute dickheads who can't stop Tweeting, or who kill their children for interrupting their game of Farmville. That's what we've raised.

Crashed And Burned...

Unfortunately, I shall not get stinking rich in the video game business. This was not totally unexpected, as I was aware of both the initially-remote possibilities and the extremely long lead time in production of any video game, to count any chickens before they were hatched.

Still, I did at least get paid for my time and effort, and that's something, but at the end of the day Market Research did me in. Market Research says; the typical video game junkie, apparently, has no patience to solve puzzles, read or even think. When they sit down for their six-plus hours of mindless entertainment (the average video game junkie spends 6 hours a day twiddling their thumbs. Now you know why there's an obesity epidemic), they don't want to have to expend braincells. My concept was shot down because -- get this -- it was judged that there was the potential for too many pauses of greater than 30 seconds in the action.

See? The world caters to people with short attention spans. That's why there's ObamaCare and Jerry Springer. Never mind that those pauses were necessary to inform players of vital plot points, to give them information to continue their virtual quest, Today's Breed requires "total immersion". Any pause in their simulated violence, bloodshed, flashing lights and sound effects might cause them to go into a coma. Anything that causes their thumbs to stop moving for that long simply invites Carpal Tunnel syndrome, or probably brings on Rabies, for all I know.

Ask them to have to read something, and you just might see an increase in suicide rates, I would suppose.

Still, the experience hasn't been a total loss; I've learned a lot, and well, there's always someone else who might find gold in my garbage. I suppose that the most shocking thing about the entire process was the discovery that the people who were evaluating my product for eventual production were so clueless...about most things. Here I was, trying to sell a video game based upon the Iliad and the Odyssey of Homer, and usually discovering that 80% of the people in the room had never read either.

One woman, in her mid-30's by the look of things (the vacant stare gives away her age. She is obviously someone raised on Reality Television), during one meeting about the storyline suddenly blurted out, as if she had some particularly curious form of Tourette's syndrome "Hey, wasn't this once a movie with Brad Pitt...?"

"Why, yes. Yes it was, Sunshine. What college did you go to again?"

"San Diego State."

Good for you! I'm sure your parents are so proud. Ask for your fucking money back.

Anyways, I guess I'll have to continue to shop the project, and horror of horrors!, continue to find a permanent job (at least as permanent as you can get these days). I wonder if there are any openings on the San Diego State faculty?

You People Are Sick (10/03/10)...

Once again, I've scanned my Blogger stats for this past week, and not surprisingly, I've found yet more evidence that mankind is, indeed, doomed. If we're lucky, we'll all die in a nuclear winter, or by some super influenza, or perhaps be hit by a comet trapped in the Earth's gravitational pull, but the alternative -- based on some of the incredibly sick shit I see in these stats -- is too painful to contemplate; a inexorably slow decline by genetic degeneration.

Of course, it's not all doom-and-gloom. If one has a sense of humor, you might find something to laugh at in all this human frailty and insanity. I often do, and I always like to share it with you!

You can see the results of last week's stat search here.

The top search terms that brought you to this site this past week were:

1. "Donkeysexe", or variations thereof - still Numero Uno, and all set to maintain a strong showing for years to come! Those of you looking for such things are, indeed, unfit to continue breeding, or you might need to be locked up to protect society, in general.

An interesting twist on this week's donkeysexe stats is that not a single hit on this term came from the Middle East (the statistically-dominant segment of donkey-lust aficionados). I wonder if this is because I posted my discovery that this term was being used predominately by "good" Muslims, or because I alerted the Islamic censors to the little trick of spelling "sex" with an extra "e" to spoof the filters, who then cracked down on the practice. If so, some poor dickhead in Saudi is probably having his pecker lopped off in the public square, right now. I'd apologize, but screw you: you're a sick bastard.

Or perhaps there was a really good "Death to America" rally somewhere in Pakistan and folks just didn't have enough time to diddle themselves to images of donkeys in various sexual motifs, what with all the flag burning and Jew-bashing to be done.

However, there is a strong indication that this is still popular in some precincts of Canada and Luxembourg. What's wrong with you people?

2. "Firemen Jerking Off, or Firemen Caught Jerking Off" - apparently, there are firemen out there playing with an altogether different variety of hose, and the word "pumper" must now take on an entirely new meaning. Yet another sick sexual fetish that makes one despair for the future of the human race.

I shudder to think of what might be going on in fire houses all over the planet! Why, if it wasn't for arson, these guys would probably be splooging each other within an inch of their lives every day.

3. A Surprise Entry this week was the search term "Danny Glover Racist" which surprised me for two reasons; first, I don't remember blogging anything about Danny Glover at all -- but I must have at one time or another -- and secondly, someone still remembers who Danny Glover is.

4. Making a respectable showing this week was the new search term "Obama(s) Asshole". Now, I do admit to having called President Odouchebag an asshole once or twice, but I most certainly do not recall ever having blogged about his asshole, specifically. Could it just be that some people are incapable of spelling "Michelle Obama" or "Rahm Emmanuel", or perhaps just too lazy to do so?

5. Another surprise entry in the "You people are fucking disgusting" category was the term "Dingleberry". I very rarely use this word, except as a synonym for "John Kerry". I would hate to think that someone typed this word into their Google search under the mistaken impression that it's a breakfast cereal, or the latest weight-loss fad, and therefore, I have to assume that people who used it are actually interested in the Dingleberry itself.

Apparently, it's very popular in Brazil. As to why, I have no clue, and am almost fearful about making a guess.

Why IT Managers are the Dumbest People On Earth...

Okay, so just why was it that I had to go into Manhattan yesterday? Well, there was the prospect of some work, is why!

There is a certain software company, which shall remain nameless, which produces an entire line of (very expensive) products which it promises that it's customers will be able to make the optimum use of information to make themselves more profitable. If you've ever worked in the IT industry, this is a standard sales ploy: our software will enable your sales force to do X, your employees to do Y, and your management to do Z, all of which will increase "productivity" and sales, cut down on miscommunication and human error, and save you scads of cash.

Which will then be given to people who do no useful work, and already make scads of cash. But that's besides the point...

The truth is that very often these claims are hard to justify. Yes, there are instances where automation can save you money, but more often than not you spend more than you save between implementation costs, maintenance, upgrades, and the disruption to the normal "routine" that each new technological gee-gaw introduces to your work flow. Programmers must devote hours to implementation and customization. Workflow Experts must decide how these tools can best be used and introduced. People need to be trained on how to use the thing. There's often new equipment to buy to make use of it. You have to hire consultants to put the thing into operation and integrate it with your existing infrastructure, or spend a lot of man-hours taking your staff from their regular duties to work with the new crap.

Technology evolves every few years, and today's bargain or productivity tool is tomorrow's White Elephant. As an IT manager, you have to be aware of this, and you need to realize that when you make a purchasing decision, that you make it for the long term. Nowadays, the trend is to buy the latest-and-greatest...and then replace it six or 12 months later when something latest-er-and-greatest-er comes along. IT budgets balloon, cash gets tight, and then you have to fire a lot of people just to keep your job.

And a year later, you make the same mistakes and the cycle continues. Because once most IT managers reach a certain level in the corporate pecking order they become more politician-than-line-worker, you eventually wind up with a multiplicity of tools of dubious value (the quickest way up the ladder is to convince your superiors that you've got the latest money-saving idea, rather than the most efficient or intelligent idea). You can't get rid of these White Elephants because you're locked into multi-year contracts, and you simply can't go back to your bosses and ask for yet-another $2 million for a new-and-improved version of what you've just fucked up.

Eventually, you wind up having to write memos exhorting the troops to use a piece of software that they a) hate using, b) often find useless and c) can't really take full advantage of, just to justify the original expense...and you desperately hope no one above you notices (don't worry, they usually don't, because they're even further removed from reality than you are).

The next step in saving your job is to implement a regime of more rigorous Information Management technologies, which is a fancy term for "can someone make sense of this shitpile for me"? If it's your shitpile and you can't make heads or tails from it, you have a problem. What makes you think I can fix it for you in a short period of time? The solution involves tying together various platforms, a multitude of different data types, and is the electronic version of trying to herd cats, into a simpler, more efficient system that promises to deliver information to those who need it, as they need it, in a way that doesn't require a PhD in Attic Greek to understand what you're looking at, and of course, cheaply.

Except that consultants ain't cheap, and neither is starting from scratch.

IT managers get into this hole because they have been raised in a climate where"Information is Power", and because it is believed (wrongly) that an employee who has access to information that otherwise has no bearing on how they do their job is a more efficient, and therefore more valuable, employee. This is wrong because the same IT managers almost always make the same secondary mistake:

Having spent millions on new technology and the means to diffuse it (iPads, Blackberries, cell phones, desktops, servers, e-mail, and so forth), they do not make any effort on training employees on how to actually use and evaluate this information properly. After all, Training People is an Expense, you see. Eventually, the typical IT worker reaches a curious state; he's supposed to be an expert in the technology you're using, but he hasn't necessarily been trained on it, and he now has information being blasted at him from all quarters, most of which he doesn't need, and he's overloaded. He's not expected to actually think (thinking leads people to make mistakes), but he is expected to always have the answers to every douchebag who calls the help line, or every visiting VIP who asks him a question about what he does and how he does it.

This is your first line of defense against problems which interfere with your, supposedly, most valuable asset: information.

And so, you find yourself on the lookout for the next best technological answer to a relatively simple manpower problem. You're not making effective use of an employee's brainpower, in fact, you're discounting the possibility of them having any brainpower at all, and become reliant on technology rather than people, and you're invested up to the neck in it. People have an advantage over technology in that they are able to think in the abstract, and are capable of showing initiative when properly motivated. If more IT managers realized this, there wouldn't be a multi-hundred-billion dollar "Information Management Software" industry, fewer IT workers would die of heart attacks before their 45th birthday, and American business would not be beholden to machines that most cannot comprehend.

And I wouldn't have to take an interview to work for an Information Management Software Company that hardly makes use of it's own products because it knows they're unequal to the Herculean task of delivering what they promise to deliver: efficiency, flexibility and cost-savings at an affordable price. You think I want to work here? Guess again!

Who wants to design NEW software to do what the last batch promised to do, but doesn't? Why didn't they just keep those programmers and designers and tell them to fix the piece of shit when they discovered it was a total kludge? Oh, right, that would have entailed expense: keeping employees with institutional knowledge, not to mention recreating something that already cost you more than you expected.

Total waste of time, this interview, except for all the ladies that I saw on the way in (see last post). You can only reinvent the wheel so many times before it's no longer a wheel. Besides, most of the kludge comes from all the bells-and-whistles (they're typically so-called "Flexible management features", which is a metaphor for "bullshit" ) you've added to your software, which usually originated by a request from ONE customer to do something differently -- usually because his bosses prefer multi-color pie-charts to monochromatic bar graphs. .

It seems to me that if you really wanted to make money in information management these days, you'd do better to recommend that managers actually make an honest evaluation of their mistakes, and then pour resources into bringing staff up to speed on what they have available to them, and them how to properly use it instead of constantly having to buy something else. I'm going to talk to some folks I know, because there's obviously a dollar or two to made here without having to write code.

You People Are Sick...

I really must thank Blogger. For while getting money that you've earned for posting Blogads may be a task on par with the Labors of Hercules, they at least have provided me with a nifty set of webtools that have provided several hours of unbridled entertainment.

I think I've mentioned this before: Blogger now provides some web analysis tools for it's bloggers that allows them access to certain kinds of information about their readers/visitors. So, I can tell where a visitor to this website comes from (country of origin), how they got here (search engine, crosslink from another website), and what search terms they used to eventually get here.

This information more than makes up in entertainment value whatever cash Blogger still owes me, but makes impossible to collect; keep it! I haven't laughed this hard or this much in years, and the laughter probably has a better therapeutic value than all the cash in the world! I've also puked more than any anorexic ever could, and have shed a pound or two.

Screw Jenny Craig; if you want to shed some pounds, checkout what some excuses for human beings are doing on the internet!

Some of this is just plain disturbing. Having access to some of this information makes me wonder about the future of the human race, and quite frankly, about whether or not this planet would be better off without us, or at least a few selected segments of the population.

The militant tree huggers just might be on to something...

To illustrate: the top search term (what you type into Google or Bing that might point you to this page) seems to be "donkeysexe". Let me assure you; this is not a typo. At first, I thought it might have been, but it isn't because it occurs far too often for it be an accident. Then I dug a little deeper (yeah, the thought of digging deeper into the realm of "donkeysexe" scared me, too), and what do you think I found?

The majority of the people who search the web for "donkeysexe" and arrive at this page come from...wait for it...the Middle East. Except for that truly disturbed person in Lichtenstein, and the obviously-undersexed asshole in Medicine Hat, the majority of the donkeysexe requests came from Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, Dubai, and Turkey. The reason it's spelled the way it is, is probably because the Islamic censors in those countries have filtered the probably-more-accurate term "donkeysex", and the addition of the extra "e" spoofs the filters.

Now, having used the term at least 10 times in this screed, I can most likely expect far more visits from members of the "Pro-Human/Burro Relationships Community".

I wasn't even going to type the term in myself, just to see what this was all about, because, quite frankly, Ive heard the tales of drunken Spring Break vacations in Tijuana, and I don't want to know anything more.

I found this phenomenon both fascinating and disgusting. Fascinating because I have long believed that part of the problem of Islamic terrorism was to be found in sexual problems and dysfunction, and this pretty much proves it,to me at least. It's disgusting in the sense that we have perhaps millions of Islamic douchebags running around with a penchant for bestiality.

The next item on the agenda of "You people are sick" is the search terms "epiduo and low sex drive/low testosterone".

I have written about Epiduo in my Bad Medicine series. It is a skin cream used to treat severe acne. Apparently, it also takes the lead out of your pencil, steals the wind from your sails, and knocks the starch out of your collar. Actually, I don't know if it really does, I just wanted to string together a few metaphors that described impotence.

Anyways, this whole association brought a thought into my head (where it quickly died of loneliness); I cannot, for the life of me, remember seeing anyone walking about lately with the sort of severe acne that was pretty common when I was a kid. I mean, I don't see anyone with that horrific red-purple moon cratering that one of my generation associates with acne. Not a single "Pizza Face". Haven't seen one in years, that I can remember.

One reason may be that because of medications like Epiduo millions have been spared that kind of scarring. But now, come to think of it, the association of acne medication and low sex drive probably contains a far better explanation: there might still be millions of people with acne, but they can't procreate as easily as they used to. Bad Acne is being slowly bred out of the population! Talk about good news/bad news: you're face is now fit to be seen in public, but your pelvis bazooka is on the fritz! Personally, I'd keep the acne, if only to make sure my Wedding Tackle was in proper working order, and besides, women today practically throw pussy at anything with a heartbeat 24 hours a day.

Another disturbing trend: the number of people who have nothing better to do with their lives than to type "douchebag" into a search engine. Several score of you each week, by the look of things. Unfortunately, I'm going to attract this type of person to this site if only because that happens to be one of my favorite derogatory terms, but I would suggest that those of you who find this wildly entertaining perhaps should seek professional help.

You certainly are not going to get any tips about how to recover that feminine sense of "freshness" (wtf, are we talking about a salad or your crotch?) here.

Which brings us to our last "most unusual" search term. For the life of me, I can't figure out how this applies to this website, because I don't think I've ever covered the subject in nearly seven years of blogging. That term is: caught jerking off. Someone is typing that into Google or Ask.com, and arriving here. Several times a day. I think they're leaving sadly disappointed.

I didn't want to, but the opportunity to gain yet another insight into how fucked up people are led me to do a cursory investigation of this topic, and the revelation was disgusting enough to cause my testicles to retract into my chest cavity (waiting for that one to show up in the report next week), as if they were desperately seeking emergency shelter from some great, impending doom.

Apparently, this is a Gay Thing. Gay Men all over the planet are seeking videos in which someone is caught Greasing the Pelican in a public setting, and deriving sexual pleasure from both the act, and the disgust/shame created when they're caught by their unsuspecting witnesses/victims. Personally, I don't see the appeal of Choking the Chicken in your cubicle, Working The Wang on public transport, or standing behind some Dude on line in a McDonald's somewhere with your John Thomas in hand, just praying that these activities will be caught on closed-circuit video, to be dispatched for the deviant entertainment of others across the World-Wide-Web.

If I caught you doing anything like that near me, I'd fucking kill you on the spot. And there isn't a court in the land, I think, that would convict me. Except maybe in San Francisco.

It is difficult to form a positive opinion of one's fellow beings when confronted by documentary evidence of just how truly sick some of you are.

But I have to admit, it's funny as hell.

My Plans for World Domination Continue Apace...

Blogger recently, and very conveniently, added a slew of new tools for it's member sites. These tools revolve around letting you know who is reading your blog, where they are reading it from, and how they found you. Before Blogger added these things, I had to go through some convoluted mumbo-jumbo -- and sacrifice a virgin -- in order to get this information.

It was a regal pain in the ass, and I'm guessing now,was not always totally accurate. We won't even get into the problems inherent in finding virgins; never mind Bald Eagles and Bengal Tigers, it's Virgins that are a rapidly disappearing species.

I blame Snooki -- and those commercials where the mother and daughter talk freely about "not feeling fresh". But, I digress...

Anyways, one of the more interesting features of this new bundle of crap is that I get to "see" my readers, by country, on a small, color-coded map of the world. It also tells me how they arrived at my site; whether they are regulars to Blogger, ride a link from another site, or find it with an internet search engine.

This information has been startling. I had no idea.

I wasn't all that surprised to discover that the majority of my "hits" come from readers in the United States; better than half of them do. I was shocked to discover that the next best-represented country was The Netherlands, followed closely by South Korea. Probably folks looking to brush up on their American swear words, I suppose.

The list continues, and surprises: Latvia, Russia, Saudi Arabia, Brazil, Australia, Canada, Germany, the UK, Denmark, China, France, Columbia, and even fucking Luxembourg. I'm reaching Luxembourg, where about four people live, and three of them are coming here regularly.

I'm also finding out that most people still find this place quite by accident. I haven't done a very good job of getting other bloggers to cross-link to me, but then again, I really hate to ask them to do so, and so rarely ever do. Perhaps if I did, I might find traffic from Mongolia, Lichtenstein and Borneo. Then again, if I was receiving traffic from those places, I'd start to worry -- it would mean there are people just as stupid-crazy as I am, and they live in even bigger shitholes; a certain recipe for disaster!

And of those who find this blog completely by accident, say through a search engine? It seems the four most popular search terms that will bring you here are:

a) Douchebag (naturally!)

b) Muslims/Islam/Terrorism (a three-way tie)

c) Masturbation (and it's associated terms)

d) Medicine

Don't ask me why; but I think I may have referenced masturbation a time or two. I actually find that pretty funny in a 13-year-old kinda way. Oh, and you people should be ashamed of yourselves -- that will cause you to go blind. I also find it stupid-funny that someone on this planet would type"douchebag" into a search engine -- repeatedly -- without being a deviant, or drunk,and possibly both.

But, it appears as if my brand of insanity is reaching around the globe, and soon my minions will be legion -- at which point, I can fire the lot of Insanity Elves here at Lunatic Central, and not a minute too soon: they're demanding Dental, Swifty the E-Mail Elf is complaining about the sticky e-mails I get (probably from the masturbators), and Lefty the Grammar Elf is agitating for unionization like a latter-day Jimmy Hoffa huffing paint.

I just want to say: Thanks -- it's all pretty neat!

Now It Can Be Told...

As for my mysterious absences from the blog thingy recently; I have been busy trying to shop an idea for computer-based role playing fantasy game (what we degenerate gamers like to call a CRPG). What is this,you ask? It's basically a virtual world where players can interact with one another while doing super-human things like slay mythical monsters, rescue fair maidens, and give in to their darker, psychotic power fantasies without actually leaving their house...or hurting anyone.

Some of the better-known games my older readers will have heard of or seen advertised: World of Warcraft, Halo, Call of Duty, Prince of Persia, The Simms, and the like. The genre has spawned as many games, and as many settings, as the human mind might conceive, but they all usually have a singular purpose: to immerse the player in a virtual reality (probably because Real Reality sucks so badly). These games are direct descendants of the role-playing games of my youth, like Dungeons and Dragons, Champions, Traveler, Twilight 2000, and others (those are the ones I played regularly from about age 12 right into my 30's).

For a long time now, I have been part of a community of players and tech geeks who have gravitated to a game called Neverwinter Nights, which was an extension of the Dungeons and Dragons franchise. One of the advantages of this game, from the player's perspective, is that the adventure doesn't necessarily end when you've played the game as it came out of the box; the developers have thoughtfully provided additional software for you to produce your own adventures for your own use, or to share with your friends. Some of the more dedicated geeks have even gone as far as to produce what are known as PGW's (Persistent Game World servers), where their personal creations are open 24/7/365 to anyone who wants to play. Some of the better ones have thousands of regulars, who come together to play act and adventure together.

The Neverwinter Nights game itself has spawned hundreds of these servers, many of them in operation for nearly a decade, now, a testament to both the game and the dedication of the community which plays it. I've been associated with a few, myself, building the servers, writing the code, and providing the background material with which the game is played. Well, I figured that since I know so much about gaming, programming, and how these things all work together in the online world, I just might as well develop my own game. It's a project that I have worked on off-and-on for about five years, now.

If you've not tried it, you should. Some of these games -- and better yet, the PGW's on which they are played --are a great way to kill a few hours on a rainy evening.

I went and developed a unique game system, chose a suitable fantasy background against which a plot could be set, and got to work trying to pound it into some kind of shape that would make it an easier sell to one of the bigger game development companies.

And I have (semi-) succeeded! I got one one of the smaller companies to give me a tenative "yes"

So, I have been pretty busy trying to nail down some details (there's an astounding amount of paperwork and legal hoop-jumping involved in copyrighting and contracts over these things), and have landed a "job" helping a bunch of even bigger geeks turn my diseased vision into a (virtual) reality.

I can't identify the company publicly, nor give you any details on the game itself, but perhaps one day (they say a really good game often takes 2 years from concept-to-publication) you'll see it in your local game store, or perhaps even play it yourself.

And to think that when I was a kid, we were told that games like this would make us all stupid, lazy, homocidal, devil-worshiping chronic masturbators who would never amount to anything!

Well, they were right about the stupid part, at least.

Hell Hath No Fury...

...like a woman you took on a "date"... and then painted an unflattering-but-accurate portrait of in your blog.

And herein is the lesson to be learned in this day-and-age where romance, culture and technology have combined to turn women -- I'm sure it does it to gay men, as well --into stark, raving lunatics. Pay attention, Men.

A certain lady that I briefly met, and to whom I then suggested we perhaps never meet, briefly or not, ever again, apparently was under the mistaken impression that I just didn't get to know the "real" her, and that I was too hasty in declining her invitation for a second encounter. This is a common trait in single women these days, and it apparently gets worse with age; I wasn't turned off by her manners, demeanor and drinking habits, I just wasn't prepared to do the work of peeling back all the layers, and so I missed the "real person" beneath all the bulging spandex.

Perhaps if you ladies would help us out a bit by not presuming to turn the whole relationship thing into a mind-fuck by making us work to "peel back the layers" of anything, life would be considerably easier for all involved. I'm not your fucking psychiatrist, and I don't like being made part of your little head games. There's a point beyond which some of it surpasses "flirting" or "protecting yourself" and this lack of communication on intimate matters -- defined as personal feelings/beliefs, not sex -- becomes a fucking ridiculous exercise in vanity and stupidity. Don't be surprised that when a man believes you're hiding something (or trying to), the thing you're hiding looms ever larger and more dangerous in his head the longer he can't discover what it might be. A little honesty would be refreshing.

I know women do think this way all the time (I've listened to them whine in group therapy about just this sort of bullshit), and apparently don't believe that men do, too. But we do. At least the ones who don't consider a woman to be just a convenient place to park a boner every now and then do. On the other hand, some women set far too much stock in simple possession of a vagina, and believe that having one is a license to be insufferable. That was, naturally, the driving idea behind Modern Feminism, a truly mentally-destructive ideology if ever there was one. Trust me; Vaginas are notoriously easy to come by, but Ladies are hard to find, because for every woman who is judicious in the bestowal of her Favors, there are at least five who are dumber than dogshit and would fuck anything without a thought about commitment -- or even of calling you the next day -- for a Jimmy Buffett t-shirt.

And believe it or not, that sort can typically at least fake more modesty than you when she tells you, with a straight face, "I've never done this before..." as she opens your zipper...with her teeth. (Yes, I have lead an interesting life in that regard. It's nothing to be proud of, really).

All the Sexual Revolution did was make that which was somewhat-difficult to obtain (Sex), low-hanging fruit for the opportunistic Neanderthal with an erection and no conscience. But I digress...

And really, it wasn't about me missing anything about Her. I think I got everything there was to get; If I wanted a bitter, immature, borderline-personality barfly who has probably been down on everything but the Titanic and probably killed or wounded a lover or two, I know exactly where to find one. Several score of them, actually. They're not all that hard to find, and great many of them won't even ask for as much as a cocktail or a hotdog for the pleasure of their company, either. Then again, I can see where she might want to keep that maladaptive personality thing under wraps. If I wasn't supposed to "peel back the layers" and find that out, then I guess I didn't do my "job" (to be willing dupe and adoring lapdog with bedroom privileges) properly, and it's not as if she didn't make it all-too-easy to discover.

I was polite the four times she requested the pleasure of my company after that initial meeting in saying "No, but thanks". I tried to be nice and show a level of patience and forbearance that was, in my estimation, far more than she was entitled to. I thought I was particularly and unmistakably definitive during the fifth and sixth rounds of "negotiations" (she was actually bargaining for a second date!) with her when I not only said "No, I don't think we should see each other again", but embellished this basic premise with "Would you please leave me alone, you fucking psycho?" when my temper finally got the better of me. I was totally within my rights when I asked the "service" to block contact with Her. I would have thought the message would get through, and she would eventually give up and inflict her nonsense upon some other loser.

But I guess that by that time it was no longer just a question of a desperate woman clinging to the idea that she can make you love her (trust me: that mindset never gets you anywhere, Sunshine). No, there was a revenge factor brought into play, primarily because I rejected her, but mostly because of what I wrote about her here.

This moonbat hired another "service". This one tracks people down online by picking up the electronic "trail of breadcrumbs" that we all leave behind in cyberspace. Nevermind how a) presumptuous, and b) fucking creepy, this sordid idea is, it's all legal. The records in question are Public Domain. This "service" also found my blog, and brought it to her attention. She read it (frankly, I was surprised that she could read)

She realized that one of the failed "dates" I had blogged about a week or so ago was HER, even though I did not use her real name in the post.

Guess who found my address with the help of the same "service", proceeded to hop on her menstrual cycle and then peddled her skinny ass on over to the Lunatic's Compound to do the full Glenn Close routine? Thankfully, there were no sharp objects involved.

Oh, it was a scene. The only way it could have possibly been worse would have been if I had actually taken her up on her offer(s) and Made the Beast With Two Backs with this pig. Then there might have been some sort of obligation to her on my part, and a real emotional attachment on hers.

It began with "What's wrong with Meeee? Why don't you like Meeee?" Oh, where to begin! Let's start with the fact that you're such a psychopath that you dropped $99.95 to hire the electronic equivalent of a Private Detective to get my phone number and address...and I'm a complete stranger who never took anything from you, nor laid a finger on you. I'm not your cheating husband; I'm not your Baby Daddy skipping out on child support; I have no connection to you AT ALL, except that I spent a few hours in your company strenuously avoiding any physical contact or making any sort of unwarranted commitments that might be misconstrued for exactly this reason -- you showing up on my doorstep to make a fucking spectacle/pest of yourself. I don't remember inviting you over.

It then progressed to "What? Is there someone else?" Umm...there wasn't even an "Us" to begin with. I had three or four drinks with you, that's it. During that time you spent the majority of the evening showing me off as some sort of trophy to your girlfriends (the first indication that there's something wrong with you!) then you did in speaking to me. In fact, I found most of those other women to be far more appealing than you are. At this point in time, Sunshine, ANYBODY ELSE would be as good, and probably a fair sight better. Mussolini in a cocktail dress, Pol Pot bearing Valentine's Day Wishes with a Whitman's Anthrax Sampler, a Bullwhip, and a 55-gallon drum of KY in hand, would turn me on more than you do. And besides; it's none of your business if there were anyone else. Boundaries, woman; respect them!

She was especially upset about the blogging, even though I didn't use her real name. Apparently, the description I gave was accurate enough for people to infer who she might be-- I got the impression that someone might have already -- and was quite unflattering. Well, if the shoe fits. I tried to explain that I hadn't really "done" anything to her, and that only brought on the predictable eruption of two-fisted, full-blown, estrogen-fueled fury. I figured the best thing to do was to let her have her say, let Nature take it's course, nod my head a lot, and just agree with her that, yes, I am a fucking dick, and then let her leave. If it meant she just went away, she could have her pound of flesh.

Which is exactly what happened. With any luck, she'll be well-and-truly out of my life, but I expect she'll stop in here to see what's being written about her, because, well, let's face it; the whole episode was all about her, wasn't it?

Maybe if you read this Sweetheart, and take a second to reflect on what you've done and how you've behaved, perhaps you'll realize why I would rather lose a limb than see you again. And get some help, will ya?