Stack Dump

so that we might not be flushed

A wholly needless, I expect, link to the main page.

I have too many backgrounds

The Rest 00
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guestbook?
stupid pictures V
stupid pictures IV
stupid pictures III
stupid pictures II I/II
stupid pictures II
stupid pictures I

sgg
aw naw, not cosmo's cosmic adventure!
Kirby part 1
Kirby part 2
Kirby part 3
Dynamite HeaddY?
McDonald's Treasureland Adventure
Pac in Time part 1
Pac in Time part 2
Air Fortress
Super Widget
Back to the Forest
Tintin and the Prisoners of the Sun
Bip Bop II
Barney's Hide and Seek "Game"
Moraff's Dungeons of the Unforgiven
Super Games Galore! Doy!

not sgg
Mall Blandness
More words
Mall Egadness
Las Vegas
Spiderman 2
Jope and Dopes
These Green Eyes
Friday
Wedding
Game Over
McDenny's
Mall orneryness
Movies I'm not going to see
Back School to fashion
Movies Make Me Mad. Moreso.
JList
France
Official pizza of Nascar
Browsers
Michael Jackson
Free Speech
Thursday
Doors
NO
Film Critics. I hate them.
Coconuts. I hate those as well.
Independence Day

not not sgg
Awards this website hasn't won
Embarrassing pictures part 1
Embarrassing pictures part 2
The Annotated Umiliphus
Hopeless.swf sandwich.swf

Thursday, Diecinueve de Mayo, 2005
Big Bird shares his new pail and shovel with his friends with amazing results.

Back around the time of my dysfunctional USB control device, I also came into possession of a USB port-splitting object which would permit for an additional three implements to be connected in the event I actually found any willing to cooperate with my eccentric central processing unit.

"On the Road" actually indicates one's containment within an automobile which is itself on the road. I could argue this phrase, but that's not the important issue (this time). This phrase's use is for the benefit of people who use those meeply portable computers, and I don't. However, the following warning still bothered me:

Maybe I live an antiquated lifestyle, but none of the vehicles I travel in have functional hand-washing utilities. I was worried, even though I don't use said meeply computer, just because there's probably some other lethal object I've touched without even knowing the dangers of ("that dial," perhaps?), but then I went back and saw that lead is only known to cause cancer in California, where all cars have complete plumbing systems, sleeping quarters and arboretums. In the event I have been misinformed, I'm still not concerned, for that's the place in the world containing the second-largest quantity of people who deserve to get reproductive harm.

Since Friday of previous, the NBC television channel has been showing promotions for the final (for now) airing of its allegedly popular Apprentice program. It is professed that this is the show when Trump finally says "You're Hired," which a clip of him doing is then shown, I guess to prove that he possesses the speech capabilities to do so.
My question: How has he been firing people up to now if none of them have been his employees yet? You cannot dismiss people from jobs they haven't been given. Also, if seeing Trump say "you're hired" was the thing to be watching for, why now should I bother? Oh, maybe that was the "you're hired" from last season. In the event that makes a difference, I'm willing to wait for next year's final episode ad to find out how this year's speaking of "you're hired" was unique, innovative, and beyond the capabilities of a non-billionaire.
Donald Trump. Another conundrum: Although his voice is funny and he's also funny to look at, mein own internal logic-type device tells me that one has to be pretty boring and unremarkable if one's nickname is just one's regular name with "the" in front of it. A nickname is supposed to be casual and somewhat affectionate, but it seems to me that any conversation initiated with "Hey, The Donald" is already doomed. Maybe he likes it that way. I might have to sass him, too. Although it might sound like whoever did the sassing in this instance was immediately fired for doing so, if that was the case, that would mean the ad had spoiled the ending, and that would mean the people who make advertising are braindamaged fudnuddlers who deserve to be homeless, and that's never been my experience at all!

what could be more appetizing than ALUMINIUM FOIL?
I HOPE WE BROUGHT ENOUGH ROLLED UP HAM! AND PICKLES!

Hey, I *LIKE* pickles!
HAVE I BECOME IMPALED ON AN INVERTED ICE CREAM CONE AND PASSED TO VALHALLA WITHOUT KNOWING IT? I DO BELIEVE THAT IS MAYONNAISE TO GO WITH MY ROLLED UP HAM! ODIN SMILES UPON US THIS DAY! HUZZAH!

I recently heard, quite by accident, the Rolling Stone song in which the singer, Michael McJagger, expresses that he does not possess the ability to not acquire satisfaction. It was pretty mediocre. Obviously; why else would I bring it up? First, if you try to get past the confusing layers of double-negative, all you're left with is the pointless message "I can get satisfaction." And so what? That's about as mass-distributable media-worthy as Big Bird being able to share. Beyond that, the music itself did not sound like it would be especially special without the word accompaniment. I'm not at all surprised that Brittany Spirz chose that one to rip-off. I'm glad, also, because in forty years, it's inevitable that the tumbling boulders have put out one good song, and whatever it is is safe for now.

Trece de Mayo, 2005
That weren't no dog. It was a rat, and I'm gonna eat 'im!

I can't believe it. I've just overheard a portion of the song Simply the Best used in an advertisement for a Tina Turner "greatest hits" type album. The nerve of that woman, to steal that song from all those fine automobile manufacturers!

Wow, it's hard to believe that it's been over a year since the last time I used "krippendorf" as a swear word or insult.

How foolish for me to think that swearing off internet bulletin-boards would solve any of my problems. It seems I don't even have to post on them for people who do to disapprove of my existence. It has occured to me the only way I'm likely to be wanted in my life time will be if I murder someone or steal cable.

So I stumbled over there, and I said my awkward sayings. Now, what I should have said, was nothing at all, and not tried to make a serious debate over a silly page that anyone worth convincing would not need to be convinced was silly. I should have just been grateful to the legendary Frenkel for the most people who've ever seen one of my pages on purpose. So no, in the event you did not come to be here from where, I won't waste time pointing the actual message pile out to you; if you managed to like the page which is its issue, this will make you hate it, and if you hated the page or didn't wish even to view it, this won't change your mind. Swaying in my favor is not what I do. This is yet another example proving that i don't win arguments, i merely confound them to the point where no one involved wishes to continue.

This reminds me of another issue which probably isn't an issue to anyone else: If you have, on the internet, a name which doesn't indicate a gendereal lean, people just assume you are of the males. Roneldo, as in "/wy/roneldo," the angelfire.com directory where the contested page is (wy for wyoming, don't ask, because I don't know), I can understand, because it ends in an O, and thus sounds somewhat masculy, but there's no excuse for the volcabbages substituted with "mr. cabbage" I've encountered in my travels (you know who you are (however, I've forgotten)). Cabbage is a vegetable, after all, and vegetables are for sissies. Maybe you're looking for volcarrion. Yes, back in the day, I might have represented my imaginary internet-self with a mustachoied Pringles logo, but does anyone really believe I possess any resemblance to that?


I never wear bow ties!


NO ONE ASKED YOU. GET QUITE QUIET OR GET QUITE DEAD.

I heard that there was a minor disturbance regarding the recent appearance of the character Yoda in an advertisement for the product known as Diet Pepsi. I think, though, that it's a little late to be accusing George Lucas of selling out his characters. About thirty years too late. I do have a problem with the most recent resurgance, however: That anyone could fall so far; to go from being the wisest and most powerful opponent to the most evil force in the known universe...to trying to cheat some bum in a diner out of a 75 cent can of soda, and failing, at that. That's a bit like Harold Houdini wetting his pants because he forgot how to operate the zipper or Alberto Einstein not being able to deduce how many apples in all. And why Diet Pepsi? Forget Darth Vader, forget the Death Star, forget living in a swamp, forget breathing recycled air on starships for extended periods of time; it's twelve ounces of high fructose corn syrup that are going to kill you. Actually, this might explain why Yoda lives for eight hundred years and then suddenly dies a week after stealing a long time ago-old twinkie from Luke Skywalker's Batttlestar Galactica lunchbox. Maybe Yoda is diabetic.

Beware Emperor Aspartame!

Friday, May 06, 2005
Peanuts is the Tootsie Roll of comic strips, and by the way that's an insult

When I saw this on a shelf one time, all I could think was that it just looks like a prop. A fake magazine read by a character on a television program so as not to alienate potential competing sponsors. Or maybe something that would be drawn in the background of a storybook illustration of a scene taking place inside a bookstore. It doesn't look real. The bland logo, the flat color background, snork, even the UPC code is blank. And then there's the man not immediately identifiable as anyone, with a vaguely dorkish smile, who doesn't seem to be looking at anything. Just the tilt reminds me of afterthought space filler, like whoever's on Jon Arbuckle's television set while he declares out loud that there's absolutely no chance Garfield's stealing his steak this time, when, in fact, not only does Garfield already have the steak, in the third panel Jon realizes he's just eaten a shoe.

 

I keep forgetting I have this.
The Adventures of Space Sandwich,
thankfully much briefer than the previous of its ilkness. Your opinion now means little; someday there will be a (surely ironic) museum exhibit for me, and people will be very intrigued by things like this.

It seems I'm still mad at the robots. Maybe they aren't in theaters anymore, but I fear we'll be hearing from them again. Else, it will be something worse. I can't even imagine what it might be. That's their talent. I'll be the last in the world to call the chosen form of imagery "revolutionary," but the peoples responsible do continually surprise and innovate in the field of making me want to die/murder. Maybe we'll have a feature film about those yellow dermatophyte gremlins that rip off people's toenails (which, by the way, the Lamisil merely scares off and never actually destroys). So it's easier, at least for the moment, to be mad at robots.
Why do they talk with their mouths? Why do they have mouths? And if they're only communicating with other robots, why so in English and not a more efficient, robot specific, data-based language like C++ or O-? Why does the movie have to just be called Robots? It's not even about robots in general, it's about one specific robot and maybe a couple of others that want to do some thing. I'm sick of specific character movies stealing all the general documentary titles. Was Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles about every Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle? As far as any of us are aware, it was, und so the title is appropriate. However, you can be certain there were a fair number of robots shunned in the semi-recent display.
Was Dodgeball about, or applicable to every game of dodgeball thus far so played? No, so it does not deserve to be named as if it was. It should not necessarily have been called Ben Stiller wearing a comical fake mustache and some other guy playing Dodgeball, but that's a start. Was Antz about every horrible, horrible, badly drawn ant? I wish it was, but sadly it is not.* Arrrgh, it makes me so mad. Did you ever see Orange County? I hope, for your sake, that you haven't, because it's pretty wretched, but it's neither about an actual county of oranges nor even a person named that. There's a town with such a title, but the movie isn't even about that. It's about some loser humans who live in the town. And guess what, they actually end up going somewhere else before it ends.
There are better, in the aspect that they are worse, examples, but let's not encourage them. The initial complaint about the robots isn't going to get any more topical if I wait for a good ending to come to me.

*And then I wrote something about Canadian Bacon that I had to remove when I found out it wasn't just about some guy named Canadian Bacon. And I bet you wouldn't even have questioned it. Bah, research.

Hitler Appreciation Day, apparently, April 29, 2005
I wish people would stay in 'Vegas, too.

Life is like a hamster wheel. You can go for as long as you want and never get anywhere. Sure, you're getting exercise, but it's not doing you any good because you live inside a glass box. Even if you manage to get out of the glass box, you'll be stepped on, eaten, or put back in the box. Sometimes you'll convince yourself that you can escape getting put back in the box if you can just make it out of that hand... am I free? Oh, don't forget about the other hand. But just one more... huh? Here's another hand. And another. And another. Arrrgh! I give up! Put me back in the box.

The problem with cocoa puffs is that it's hard to eat properly when you're cookoo. Eventually you lose your control of the simplest actions, including those which might have operated a spoon.

For your information, I only see this compuserve page when I check, almost entirely in vain, my e-mail from a remote remote location (my local location also being somewhat remote). Do not think I go looking for this.
I knew Jared wouldn't last.
If I were to guess, and I are, my answer would be "the smiling fat guy in the picture." And also, apparently 70 million other people. "Why it's OK" need not be discussed, since most of them have already convinced themselves.

First night of Passover, April 23, 2005
I gotta have my Pops.

Aw, ban. Not terribly long ago, I received a message recently from someone who was involved with the design of those fabulous Skunny games. He informed me that his battalion was granted six months to make six games by Captain Copysoft himself, Phillip Mercier, and that he later praised his cat for desecrating Mercier's jacket. So should we all. Even though the cat is now dead.
Ehhh, so it turns out that the skuntoiler had recently read the page I made about those games two years ago (why else would he have contacted me? Pay attention!). Most shocking of all is that he seemed not incredibly bothered by it. I'd love to reproduce the message here in full, but as those games lacked apparent credits, I fear to connect them to any specific person not named within them might negatively affect such a persons' credibility. All the worse so if my person is involved. As with all cases of e-mail exchange involving me, I messed it up by being weird when responding, but for a brief period, I really suspected I was moving towards understanding it all.
I always wondered if anyone liked that page. I'm glad to know someone did, especially someone that it essentially was designed to hurt the feelings of. I suppose it's also possible that this person read some different Skunny related page which I didn't write, but I have a hard time imagining that there is one.
I could make my contact information less elusive, and thus leave less mystery as to those pages' connection with this one, but then there'd be pressure to make them good. On the other appendage, if it would get me acknowledgement from Moraff, I'd do it tomorrow. That sort of recognition, or actually any at all, makes this worth all some of the trouble. Last year I came into the awareness of two people who had met D. Stuart Riffle (yes, I was weird to them, too), author of the esteemed BipBop II, whose page I posted in 2002 (I recently played it to the end; surely at some point I will update the page with that story). I guess it will be 2007 before I know what anyone thinks about the Cosmaw page. That's probably for the best. And in so saying I ensured I would find out within a month. Unbelievable.

I leave you now with a public service announcement:

I suspected I had made this clear, but perhaps I had not: since I so despised, not only the base ball itself, but also the "walk by and hand-slap with opposition force" segment following each "game," I did not do it for very long. I didn't even find out what a "short-stop" was until the disgraceful nerd kid on Step by Step mentioned one. By the way, I consider nerd kid a disgrace not for being a nerd, but for being a nerd who wishes he could play base ball. You should have thought about that before you became a nerd, nerd! But! The base ball in my own life, once the commanders took away the ball-stand and instituted "rules," "competition" and "game-like aspects," was a non-issue. I didn't even keep with it long enough to be bestowed uniform clothes with pants. It should be noted, on such a subject, that prior to trouseral issuement, players are expected to provide their own pants.


Don't believe everything you see on television.

Saturday, April 16, 2005
Thank goodness for Chef Boy-ar-dee

I played base ball at one point. Or maybe it was tee ball or wiffle ball or hard ball or soft ball or something like that in which an alleged adjective refererences a ball. It seems to me, if that little ball hurts when someone throws it at you, it's not really all that soft. Thankfully, I didn't do it for very long. It wasn't that I was terrible at it. I mean, I was, but every six-year old child is terrible at everything. The reason I stopped was because the game was nothing more than "miss hitting the ball three times and stand way over there for half an hour." Again, it was that way for all of the "players," but since every relevant friend I may have had (back then I did have some) was put on a different team than I was, I didn't have anyone to talk to while I was standing way over there for half an hour. While I was assigned to carry on the noble legacy of Corner Stop (formerly Dairy Mart), anyone I was familiar with was relegated to the dark realm of the dastardly Dursow's Garage. Who knows how long I might have been stuck in that lifestyle had I a person to share it with. But because I didn't, I was able to step away, realize what a terribly dull game it was and that I, in fact, never liked it to begin with. I remember that I frequently wore a jacket with the logo for the New York Metropolitans on it. I didn't know who they were. I just liked the weird orange shape, which I later realized was a Y merged with an N, against the dark blue background. Base ball, as a thing to be done or observe get done, meant nothing to me.
Many are not so fortunate as I was, however, either being owned by parents who prohibit them from giving up on this thing that doesn't matter, or don't have a bad experience until they've been doing it long enough to have become good at it. Why is this wrong? It's wrong because I don't have any memory of desiring to volunteer to do the base ball, and anyone who's been doing it their whole life probably doesn't remember either. It was brought up into their lives before they developed the mental capability to turn it down. This is a societal indoctrination system whose primary purpose is to supply communities with brutish man oafs to build, work at and consume the food-type objects of McDonalds', and later improve the local CBS affiliate's golf ratings. It's just like Sparta, except that the oafs will still be around to consume and keep Beetle Bailey in newspapers long after they've outlived the only skills they received any encouragement to develop. I'm hardly saying every sport person is a useless twit, just that only a few of them aren't. One of the greatest people I know of used to play the fuball, but like I did, he managed to have some really miserable and bad experiences and get the opportunity to see that the people giving orders and recommending things are liars with agendas they themselves could not explain if questioned. Additionally, he was actually good at the football, and I've never asked, but because of this I expect he was never locked in a room and told "you're not coming out until you kick the offs and field the goals!", and thus had time to get not stupid, so that when a notorious band of the scoundrels conspired to have him banned from playing football, he was able to do other things that didn't involve intentionally damaging people. He still watches it, and resents being prohibited from playing it, I guess, but he has transcended oafdom. But at what cost do we transcend oafdom? I don't regard me as an oaf, yet I frequently weep and shriek at things, and at times am just as insufferable. Oh, I can see you're shocked. Where does it stop? Where does it end? Right here. For I am done.

you don't want to miss them!
They'll get ya every time!

GLOP GLOP GLOP! Bah, feh, and arrrrgh. I just noticed, that for the past YEAR three pictures on the Moraff page not only weren't showing up, but were not referenced in the code, so no one would even know they were supposed to. CRINK, GLIMF, MARP. It's entirely possible no one ever saw it, but it makes me mad. Hence the foul language.

One time, my sister Salbrific did not go to a school on a day in which one such as I might have assumed someone in that age bracket would have attended school. I would criticize Salcobrena for spending this time watching television, but since I've spent similar unusual off-times playing video games, sleeping or (horror), writing things like this, that would hardly be appropriate. I think my real problem was that the television station was MTV. Specifically, a program known only as Pimp my Ride, in which "pimp" is apparently a verb and "ride" is apparently a noun, it being a degenerative oversimplification to denote an automobile. You might as well call an airplane a "fly" or a theatre showing Miss Congeniality II a "murder."
Before this program, however, was Room Raiders, which sadly does not involve pirates, vikings, or any other seafaring, bearded pillagers. Instead, three whores, desperate for the affection of another whore they've never met, for some reason, for another reason permit MTV's crew of non-applicable whores to rummage around inside their bedrooms. If that sentence is confusing, understand that it's not important, to my story, which whoregroup the bedrooms belong to. It doesn't matter who wins the contest, either, because all three are exactly the same, and on every episode. "I think my greatest personal aspect about myself is my personality." Sure, if fifty-six million other people all use it too, it would have to be pretty well developed and great. Just like AIDS. Any unique, memorable characteristic about anyone might potentially make viewers notice how frequently the show gets re-aired.
I don't know why MTV even bother having different programs. Whenever they find a new music video, they will show no others, despite a twenty-four year stockpile of them (plus several other channels with the same policy/archive), and each one gets watched, often in my house. Everytime they make a new "original series," they film thirteen episodes and then run each one eighty times in one week, and it works! MTV could put on a show called Rotating Sock and it would be successful, even if the sock did not rotate, just because their core audience are people who desire to be told what their interests are.

Back to the subject of performing pimp upon the ridden, what I want to know:
How did pimp go from describing a despicable man who exploits and endangers women and then takes their money as well, to a word that is any way positive? And is that even positive? Who would want three television sets in their car, anyway? If you're driving, they'll either do you no good or annoy you, and if you're not driving, you probably aren't in your car. How many passengers are you getting in there? If every one of them demands to be watching different shows, they're obviously so selfish and spoiled that they aren't worth being friends with and having in your car.
I was not watching this program myself, thank pog, I only heard the sort of noises to denote it was on. For you see, in order to access the toilet-room around these parts, I need to pass past the stairway leading to the area in which shows like that are watched, and since apparently everyone else who lives here is near-deaf, I can hear things from further away than they can. I can hear things from even further away --as in: as far away as I can get-- if whoever's using the internet computer down there shuns the electric ear-muffs in favor of initiating a racket-war with whoever's watching the magic picture box.
So after that unseen display, a voice reads a terrible poem announcing the next scheduled non event:
"Dee dee dee, dah dah swell, (like I want to remember) how would I know music without TRL?" My answer: "Better." That answer was the only one provided.

One week from last week, Thursday, April 07, 2005
Right now it's a great time to be silver, because you're over fifty, and you haven't lost your edge.

I complain about advertising a lot, but on some very rare occasions it is done effectively:


Gosh, look at those bright colors! The spiffish highlighting! The bouncy letters! I don't know (or wonder) about you, but I have to get me some Crystal Meth!
Also, just floating around entirely without explanation or aesthetic coherence: ICE, ZIP, GLASS, CRISTY! Are those nicknames for the drug or the next generation of bootleg Pacman ghosts?


I suspect the cracker and the plate are made from the same material.
I can say ''cracker'' because I'm also a salted wafer.

lEaVe $5o0oOo iN An unMarKEd eNVEloPe or NeveR See yOur LiSt agAIn!

Oh! It's the New York Times book best-seller's list! Understand, though, that these are not the best books; only the ones which sold the best, that meaning the most copies. Not second most copies, either. You'd get just as much benefit from reading a number two book as eating it. No no, these are only the most absolutely essential books ever written. Books like
MYSTERY!  What could these be pictures of?
and
Real number ones, in much the same way that American Idol is the number one television show and Guess Who is the number one movie (who would have thought black people and white people are different from each other?) and urination is the number one excretion method. Do not be distracted by the fact that the word "list" is in letters 20 times as big as any item on the list, or the seeming arrogance of claiming the list itself as "Number One," for the books are the real stars here. Books whose messages will always be relevant, forevermore influencing society, such as

and

If you think the "Liberals Are Idiots, No, Conservatives Are" pattern motif looks more like a transcript from an episode of Peewee's Playhouse than a literary guide, then you probably just can't read.

April Fool's Eve, March 31, 2005
Forget blueberry pie, I yearn for crunchberry pie.

The dog is apologizing for looking Behind the Green Door.

What could that dog possibly have done to take the student ID system offline? Was it related to how the dog came to have blue hair? For example: punishment by the Wizard of ID.
Mu, that dog does look absolutely mortified. The worst I've ever seen from a human on a matter like this is raised shoulders, upward facing hand-palms, maybe an "I smell something bad" facial expression. It's not like without the identification system, the students will forget who they are, is it?
In a completely unrelated note, I got the instructor's assistant to address me as "Frimbip" for the entirety of a laboratory class I was in the day of this picture.
In a similarly unrelated note, it being related to the unrelated note: I was banished from that class very soon afterwards. It happened when some strange man I'd never met, (with glasses, even!) told me the class was "full" in a chance accidental encounter in the hallway. Since there was still physical space, free chairs and resources available in the room, the instructor was a spiteful melonballer, oh and also that I'd been in it the past three times, I might have otherwise never known. So then, I stood there holding about fifteen pounds of mostly useless things for another twenty minutes, afraid to enter the room. The reason I was there twenty minutes early is because I thought I would have an easier time speaking privately to the instructor regarding the matter of my departure. I thought it would be awkward if I had to get up and walk out of the room during the class, more so if I then did not return. It would be more discreet, I believed, if I could speak with the instructor before either of us entered, and then if I had to go I could do so without my being seen. In a biology class there are things to set up, and it's just not professional to do that after the students have all arrived. Of course, I knew, upon seeing me outside the room she would deliver the information I needed, and this would be quite a bit before anyone else showed up. Ha ha ha.
She actually walked past me, into the room, the minute the class was scheduled to begin. I had to question her myself to get the news confirmed. And then she backed away while giving this confirmation, so that I must become louder to be heard, and thus additionally by more people, who had also been walking past me: standing there like a twit clutching my possessions for the previous fifteen minutes.
"SO I SHOULD JUST LEAVE THEN? I SHOULD TURN AROUND AND THINK OF SOMEWHERE ELSE TO GO? OH, ALL RIGHT THEN! GOSH, WOULDN'T I LOOK STUPID IF I WAS SHOUTING THIS IN FRONT OF THE TWELVE OTHER STUDENTS WHO'VE OVERLOADED THIS ROOM CLEARLY ONLY DESIGNED TO ACCOMODATE TWENTY?!"
She also informed me that the "strange man" was "only" the program director. I deserved that sarcastic inflection. When a man I've never seen before who somehow knows my name approaches me in a hallway and tells me there's insufficient space for me in a vicinity I'd exhibited a recent ability to fit inside, and also wears glasses, my ignorant upbringing causes me to regard him as strange. How dare I.

It's great, really, it is, that you want to make, at least in name, biology to be fun, but I'll be a monkey's bunkbed if that or the thing it forwards to aren't two of the goonliest things I've ever seen. I don't believe I would have tried to make [that] stuff up, so to be told that I can't, and at all times, is quite unnecessary. The whole thing is just impractical. First, I need to wait for the flash to load, unless I'm at one of the network'd Grateway computers, in which case I'll need to scroll a lot, because they're all set to 800x600, and that website's size is non-negotiable. And then, the only way to read the syllabus is to go to the website and scroll some more through that at the only snailish pace it allows. You can't select it and copy it into a text document, nor does it look safe to print as it is. It reminds me too much of Freecell.

I hate amelica's insistence that I eat certain foods always and only with certain accompaniments. Sandwiches must have mayonnaise, sundaes must have whipped cream. I tried kettle cooked popcorn a few times, and it occured to me that the stuff would be great if it didn't have sugar on it. I don't particularly give a bucket of wet mice that your great grandpappy Festus McGee always had sugar on his popcorn, because I'm not Festus, neither are you, and he probably chewed too much tobaccy to be capable of tasting most things anyway. I tried to put salt on the popcorn, and it worked about as well as on a chocolate covered pretzel. Or chocolate on a salted pretzel, for that matter. I also hate not being able to order any nugget-shaped meat product without having some form of "dip" forced upon me, and it's always barbecue sauce or honey mustard. If the stuff is so important, why not cook the meat product in the dip? That would save the people who desire it potential spillage, give me an excuse to eat vegetables instead, and most importantly it would eliminate any traces of cartoon bacteria.
(note to self: that reference is sufficiently obscure, but not at all humorous. i hate you)
(note to melf: nice job on the acid arrow)
(note to self: that was an improvement, I suppose)
(note to self: delete notes to self and melf before uploading webpage)

I think this might possibly be the worst song ever made. Yes, even worse than Hakuna Potato. Hey, speaking of "ready to go," announcer person, when is this advertisement going to be? It's been harrassing me for long enough that someone else ought to have complained by now. Gash that song is wretched. Yes, even worse than Rampage on the NES, due to it not requiring any input from me to start itself and the addition of the vocals.
But first the melody (that being the most apparent note sequence; not necessarily anything musical), a bland string of notes twice, then slightly higher pitched and then normal again. That's like the audial equivelant of clip-art. It's terrible and everyone can use it. In fact, I just did:


No, it's not the Atari 2600 polygraph simulator, this is what that music actually looks like. They go up and then they go down. I think I wrote this song on my Fisher Price Xylophone back in 1987. After it gets to the end of that, it starts over, and then goes on forever. The "wuh-ooh, ooh-ooh-ooh" voice has even less variation than that, as in none whatsoever. It also says no words, thus conveying no information. At least when Gwan Stefani pretends to sing, there's an attempt at putting forth some doyfish message. But this is just a tone-deaf twitwit expressing repetitive enthusiasm for fast internet I can't afford. Why is it even there? Not "to sound good," certainly.
I heard the advertisement with this terrible, terrible song in it come on today while I was unfortunately in the unfortunate company of others and could not control my actions. That's the closest I ever want to come to being a werewolf (the werewolf, by the way, was not in the NES version of Rampage). "oh, that song's in Kill Bill!" they tried to tell me, like that exonerates it or something. Like that sprinkles Lot's iodized Wife over the monstrous kryptonite slug in front of me. Unless "Bill" is the credited composer, I think we have bigger matters to tend with.
Arrrgh. Why do they think need to tell me that? Like I couldn't eventually hear it from in here when they watched it yesterday without telling me. Our television set is weird, in that the volume it normally has is halved when a DVD is playing. Since most movies start with music much louder than normal dialogue, these people don't think to increase the volume level until characters start talking (similarly, they don't turn it down again until the movie ends and the THX Weather Channel comes on). This means I don't hear any noise to let me know what's going on until the first loud thing after the introduction occurs, which is usually a good twenty minutes because that's just the way Amelicans make movies. Briefly exciting and then boring for much longer. I won't know specifically what I'm hearing the noise of until I am beckoned by the latrine to exit my quarters. In this case it was the worst song in the world and various automobile expletives. I vaguely indicated here in the past that the dialogue in the ads for the Bill Killing did not please me (they didn't even need to have that song in the background), but I think I could tolerate it if enough of the people saying it became stabbed. I'm not going to join this already in progress, however, especially not at the point that features the worst song known in this world.

More Compuserve killiness.

''We have a passion for Rat Poisiano here at Olive Garden''
I'm glad you asked. It proves you haven't been paying attention and aren't going to issue me a demerit for stealing your images all the time.


If you have to ask either question, but especially this one, then the answer is probably yes. But don't let the answer stop you.


No.

Treet sez:
Let me get this straight. You took the most mocked and ridiculed food of all time, and made a low budget, corner-cutting rip-off? Since Spam doesn't have corners, who knows what integral components of functional mediocrity you left out? Oh, and then you named it after a treat. And you didn't even bother to spell it properly! Great job, Armour. Do you know that most people think you spelled that wrong, too? Oh, premium pork. That's a laugh. Whoever heard of bright pink pork? It looks more like the meat of marshmallow peeps than disease-ridden, chemically nourished, probably molestally abused hogs. I hope for your sake that it is.

Treet Luncheon Meat
Note: The above message does not necessarily represent the thoughts or words of the very sentient Treet Luncheon Meat. Hey, that rhymes. I'm so talented.

Get the heck out of here,     you nerd!

Leave me alone.

Weasel