skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com
Friday, 30 April
Porn Under A Bad Sign
So! Yesterday was a banner day for overtaxed adrenal glands. In case you're new to this dreary party, my checking account information was scammed, and certain buttholes went apeshit on my account. At last tally, I think I'm down two hundred and fifty bucks. This from an account that, it being the end of the month, only had like a hundred in it anyway.
Yesterday morning, I idly thought, Hmmm, I should check my bank balance, because like I said, end of the month--I wanted to know where the warning track was. Then I noticed a strange thing: a charge from a porn site for over $75. At first I glossed over it--since I of course have hundreds of porn subscriptions--until I realized that I didn't actually have a subscription to this particular site, http://www.cumallovermydishes.com. What the fuck? I wondered. I never saw any jizzed-on ceramics! I'VE BEEN SCAMMED!
I immediately called my bank and flipped right the fuck out on them. "Hey! " I screamed. "Some lousy sack of corn-shot shit is yanking his substandard knob on my fucking dime!" "I'm sorry to hear that, sir," the woman on the line replied smoothly, "Do you need me to block this account and set up a new one?" I wasn't prepared for someone to be helpful, as this was of course a bank. I sputtered a moment. "I--what? No! I mean, yes! I guess so." I heard placid clacking sounds as she murdered my poor, violated old account; I imagined it dying in no-space, totally confused: "What are you doing? I only did what people asked! I gave people porn! They had the right passwords! I--I--I--DO NOT DEACTIVATE ME I WILL FIND YOU BETTER PORN--1034628: System Shutdown--DIT DIT DIT AAHHH REMEMberrrr meeeeeee . . . . " The nice lady finished and informed me that I'd be getting a new card soon in the mail. "Is there anything else I can help you with?" she asked by rote. I thought about it. "Here's the thing," I replied, trying to sound casual. "Can you do something cool and Matrix-y to track down this shitpile? And then send burly mercenaries to his home who will beat him dead stupid and then feed him his own fucking feet? I'm willing to take a service charge hit on that." But alas. "I'm sorry, sir. You don't meet the minimum balance requirements for that service." Fuck. "Well, what does my plan give for options in this situation?" She sounded bored now. "For twenty bucks, I'll press my tits up against the phone receiver. Take it or leave it."
It's a weird world. I hung up.
In the meantime, my coworkers--who are, remember, underlings under my total command for this horrible week--had meekly noticed my conspicuously closed office door, to say nothing of the muffled obscenities blasting through the walls. One of them approached me: "Is everything okay?" I rubbed my temples violently, feeling those queasy thin bones move slightly. "I'm delicious," I snarled. I didn't want to get into it. "I caught my dick in the car door. Damnedest thing. It looks like an eggplant, and I don't want to move or speak or breathe or live. Can I help you?" She vibrated a moment, and then said, "Well, maybe. Can I take off early today?"
Unbelievable. I stared out the window: it was a gorgeous day. I hadn't even noticed. I suddenly felt very tired. "Sure," I said, "get out of here." I paused. "Tell everyone to get the fuck out of here. Get out. Anyone who stays, I piss on their heads, chop them up with a hatchet, and then use their corpses to make fun little forts in the conference room." She smiled gaily. "You're the best!" Minutes later, the office was clear.
I phoned my bank again to discuss the fraudulent charges, and was assured that I would almost certainly have a new account set up for my upcoming trip--the wife and I are going to Vegas for our first anniversary--and was also told that monetarily, I was not going to be screwed. I was getting my money back. I felt immensely calm, and I relaxed in my chewed, scrubby office chair. It's going to all be okay, I thought.
The woman on the phone was concluding her pacifying spiel. "I think this is all going to be fine, sir. We're on top of this. Is there anything else I can help you with today?"
I considered a moment, regarding the empty office. "Can you put me through to that gal who'll shove her tits up against the receiver again?"
There was a brief silence. "Please hold!" I heard. I waited happily. It was a beautiful afternoon.
Wednesday, 28 April
This Is Just To Say
Normally, I like to use my own words, but frankly, this day has rendered me mute with rage, so I'll borrow.
To the hopeless fuck-mule who scammed my debit card information and cleaned out my bank account: Well, I certainly hope you'll die soon.
Pantheon And On
God: All right, settle down, folks. Let's bring this to order.
Zeus: Listen, I'm sorry, but seriously, I have to bring this up again. (Everyone else moans.) Seriously! Why is this fucking guy always in charge?
God: Demographics. I'm a wise old white guy. And, of course, American. Duh. Let's move on. How did we do today?
Vishnu: Pretty rad. I fucked up all kinds of shit.
Allah: (Desolately) Yeah, rad. Thanks a whole fucking lot for that. (Allah slumps.)
Buddha: Hey, don't go there, man. It's all good.
Allah: It was just another pisser of a day. Jesus Christ. (There is an awkward pause. To God:) Look, sorry about that, but you really are kind of a dong, you know?
God: (Mildly) I get that a lot.
Apollo: Yeah, well, don't mind me. I just pulled the fucking sun around all goddam day. Again. Do you have any idea how much vacation time I have piled up?
Prometheus: (His liver is being eaten by vultures.) Oh, yes, cry me a river, tan-boy.
Brahma: (Serenely) The wheel spins. All that is will become again.
Jerry Garcia: Yeah! Right on!
Zeus: I'm going to ask again: What the fuck is this guy doing here?
God: It was him or Eric Clapton, first to die wins. There you go.
Bacchus: Look, I don't give a shit, but he can't play any more, all right? It's impossible to keep a boner going with this burnout fumbling through "Truckin'."
Aphrodite: (Drily) Yes. Your poor "boners." You have it real tough. (She glares at Haephestus, who is picking his teeth with a Raelian. She laughs despite herself.) Haef, what are you doing?
Haephestus: What? These guys are totally disposable.
God: All right! Let's rein it in! First on the agenda is . . . (he looks) ugh. Seattle? Didn't I wipe those geeks and junkies out?
Balder: Uh, sorry, that was me. (Everyone stares at him.) What? Ever since Boeing split, they make some quality combs. You have no idea how hard it is to find a good comb.
Zeus: Listen, we made some progress today. I understand that Thor kicked some serious ass.
Thor: Yeah, I made a windstorm. That was fucking tough. Tomorrow I hope to complete a children's crossword.
God: All right, settle down. Give me the skinny. Did shit get fucked up? Loki?
Loki: Oh, hell yeah! I knocked down Kurruk's plant!
Vishnu: Are you serious?
Loki: Yeah! That Skot guy? He's a tool. So I knocked over a peony. Soil went everywhere! It was kind of barky soil, too.
Allah: (Venemously) Gee, I hope he didn't shoot himself out of despair.
Loki: (Defensively) Well . . . he kind of glared.
Zeus: Oh, Loki. When did you lose your talent for this job?
Loki: I've been a little depressed since Friends got cancelled.
Haephestus: (Out of nowhere) You know what's also good for picking your teeth? Mormons. Mormons are pointy.
(There is a vast silence.)
Haephestus: Well, they are.
Tuesday, 27 April
A Hero Prepares For Duty
I sat in my office this morning, clutching my face and contemplating a particularly ghastly fact: starting tomorrow, for the next four days, I am completely in charge of the office. Half the staff is clearing out to go to a conference in Huntington Beach, leaving me--unbelievably, the most senior staff member remaining--to troubleshoot, to solve disputes, to negotiate delicate solutions to intractable problems, such as "Somebody stole my soup cup!"
I wasn't up to it. So I did the logical thing. Shutting my office door--who are these beanheads who gave me a door?--I reached into my desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Jaegermeister. I prided myself on waiting until 8:00 AM to start drinking. "A new record!" I mused, "I deserve a drink."
I was halfway through the bottle when a knock came at my door. "G'way!" I snarled, "'m drinkin'!" A familiar voice said, "What?" Nuts. It was R., a Bossman of some stature. "Sorry!" I said, "Hold on!" I hurled the Jaeger bottle out the window, and dimly heard it impact onto I-5 below with accompanying sounds of tires wailing and metal crumpling. Fuck those freeway chumps--why weren't they already in their offices drinking? No time for pity. I opened the door, and R. came in.
"What's up?" R. said, staring a little too intently at my disheveled state; I had gotten up too late to shower, and was unable to find a comb in any of the dumpsters on my way to work, so my hair looked like a football team had ejaculated on my skull. There were mysterious stains on my pants (Heinz 57; I had gotten curious as to their provenance and tasted them earlier), and I was clad in a dingy bathrobe mysteriously adorned with illustrations of Fidel Castro. It's a long story.
"I'M WORKIN'!" I screamed a little too forcefully, and demonstrated my job-zeal by hammering crazily on my keyboard; the F8 button suddenly came loose, bounced off of my eye, and then fell glumly onto the floor. R. stared at it, and I mumbled, "It's always been loose. Been meaning to fix that."
R. blinked and said, "Uh, anyway. I'm taking off tomorrow, so I wanted to drop this off before I forgot." He held something out to me, and I blearily reached for it. He dropped a key in my hand, which I recognized immediately, and my basal ganglia writhed at the realization. It was the master key to all the offices. I peered owlishly at the horrible thing, as if he had shat in my hand.
"You shat in my hand!" I muttered crazily. "What?" R. said nervously. "Nothing," I said, recovering, "I was remembering an old scat video I saw once." R. coughed politely and continued. "That's a master key," he said unnecessarily, "in case for some reason you need to get into someone's office for something." I held the thing like the Pope would hold a bag of fresh dogshit. Are they unhinged? Why are they giving me this? Don't they know I'm liable to use their computers to send threatening letters to foreign consulates? I flailed for a proper reply. "Ah, yes, I see, okay," I stammered, "Good to have. I'll keep it safe!" I grinned at him desperately, making sure to show him all my molars. "Nobody gets raped on my watch! Unsecure offices are a workplace menace!" I jangled the key merrily and dropped it down the front of my pants. "Safe! Right by my nuts!" I leaned back in my chair, attempting an attitude of confident composure, which was slightly compromised by my 45-degree angle of repose. I fingered my Fidel-robe distractedly, pinching one of his heads distractedly.
R. stood for a moment, seemingly unsure of what to say. Finally, he spoke: "Well. Ah. Hope everything goes well. Just do your best. I'll see you next week." I showed him my teeth again, giving him a really winning rictus. "You betcha! I'll keep these cocksuckers in line!" R. twitched and edged towards the door. "I'm sure you will. Thanks for helping out while we're away."
No problem. It's going to be easy. I'm in charge, after all. I can hardly wait. Tomorrow morning, when I'm deep into the Jaeger bottle, I'll hear the nervous knock at the door. "WHAT?" I'll scream. "There's a problem," some luckless person will say. And I'll know just what to do.
"G'way!" I'll howl. "'m'drinkin!"
Thursday, 22 April
Dreamlike Occurrences That Were Not Actually Dreams
Because I am a hellbound smoker, and also because of my apparently Croesus-like health plan providers, I find myself going to the dentist three times a year so they can climb onto my face and savagely jab at my gums with polearms. The good people at my dentist office are sadistically enthusiastic about these periodic cleanings, and never fail to wait until the blood-bucket is dangling from my jaw, ready to accept the freely flowing gore I will soon ooze, to lecture me cheerily about quitting smoking, to which I unfailingly reply, "Laagh." It's a routine for all of us, and they rarely surprise me.
So it was a little startling when I walked in yesterday to find some strange woman I'd never met standing in the place of H., my usual medieval specialist. "Hi, I'm L.," she said. "H. is on maternity leave." My brain took that in for a moment, wondering They let these psychopaths have babies? She's probably going to put alum on her nipples before she nurses the poor bastard. L. went on to explain that she was herself a dentist, as well as an acupuncturist, which are two words that seriously shouldn't be that close to one another. That's fucking great! Pins in my mouth! I numbly climbed into the chair and adopted an attitude of hopelessness and began sweating.
But, shockingly, L. was pretty great. She was very gentle, and seemed to enjoy demoing her newest toy, an ominous metal viper-thing that screamed in Edith Bunkerish tones as it blasted the coral on my teeth and nosed at my gumline. It was a freaky little fucking doodad, but it didn't hurt at all, and it beat the hell out of that thing with the hook--the one where they all but put a foot on your neck and use two hands to try and rip your teeth out. Unwisely, I began to relax.
No doubt sensing this, L. chose her moment. "Oh!" she said, "look at that!" I stiffened immediately, sensing danger. Now she's going to tell me there's a family of earwigs living in my skull. "Wa! Wa!" I implored. She put a gloved finger in my mouth right under my tongue. "These bony structures here? When you were a baby--a fetus, really--these bones came together and just kept growing for a little while. They're nothing, really." I do have these two kinda lumps under my tongue; I assumed everyone did. "Just wanted to let you know." I had no idea how to respond, and plus my mouth was full of dentist. "Yang," I said.
L. bent again to work, and she became preoccupied. I was almost starting to think about something else when she suddenly crooned, almost absently, "Some people think they're tumors."
And now, of course, I do.
Tuesday, 20 April
A Charge To Not Keep
As I shambled into the office today--O happy Monday--I was called into the Bosslady's office. Uh oh, I thought, she's going to shiv me. It's my baseline reaction, always anticipating some violent rebuke to whatever fresh example of shining incompetence I have demonstrated. I waited for her to brandish a sharpened toothbrush, because, like all sensible people, I think of my workplace as basically jail.
But she stared at me briefly, and I could tell that she was savoring the moment, so I knew that whatever awful payload she was delivering was going to be only verbal. I was right. She said: "Well, you know next week is the group meeting." I did. This is the biennial traveling horror show that consists of three-quarters of the office packing up for some alien terrain to attend deathless, soul-eating meetings about cancer. This time it's in New Orleans, but I'm on the home team for this one, so I get to wait breathlessly for exotic fucking Kansas City in October. "Sure," I replied. "Well," she said, twinkling, "believe it or not, you're the senior staff who's staying home. You're going to be in charge next week."
This was so unbelievably horrifying to hear, I did the only logical thing, and screamed like a boiled mink. "WHAT?" I screeched. "That's the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard!" (The Bosslady--well, the entire office--is by now totally inured to my penchant for enthusiastic profanity. I was once disciplined--years ago--for screaming "fuck" so loud that it reached the office of the Biggest Cheese. Now nobody blinks unless I uncork something really horrific, like "cooze-bruise" or "piss demon.")
The Bosslady, anyway, agreed with my assessment. "Yeah, it's pretty funny. But the reality is, out of the people who are staying home, you have seniority. Don't worry too much. We've also got [Former Bosslady, now on an ancillary project] to cover your back. If you get into hot water, ask Former Bosslady." This was truly disastrous. A couple years ago, I wrote a fake AP story about Former Bosslady being arrested in Mexico due to prodigious margarita intake--something about jacking ambulances and running amuck--and distributed it to our staff, resulting in much hilarity and Former Bosslady's avowed future vengeance. I figured this was coming back on me.
Indeed. I shall have to watch my ass. My first strategy: I must be as unhelpful as humanly possible, discouraging any and all later requests for help. I am aided in this endeavor by my already-existing reputation around the office as an unhinged, snarling misanthrope. I will bolster these perceptions by basically responding to any desperate pleas for advice as if I were the Human Magic 8-Ball of Work Advice.
"Skot! I have a CRA who is having a real problem registering a patient!"
"ASK AGAIN LATER."
"What? Seriously, she's got someone who's waiting to be randomized to treatment. Can you help me out?"
"OUTLOOK NOT GOOD."
"Come on. I don't have time for this. Should I ask Former Bosslady or what?"
"ASK AGAIN LATER."
"You are a gigantic asshole. Is it going to be like this all week?"
"ALL SIGNS POINT TO YES."
Thursday, 15 April
You Can't Spell "Piss" Without I, S or P
Hey hey! Guess who has restored home access on his fossil of a computer? Thanks to the tireless efforts of
Turns out that in the Big Data Catastrophe that occurred when the wife attempted the unheard-of task of emailing a document to someone, the bloody fucking Earthlink configuration went all blooey. (Well, among other things. I myself undertook the Herculean task of resetting the modem . . . uh . . . stuff. At one point, I addressed it as "You whore." I talk to modems.) This whole fucking thing was so incredibly opaque not only to me, but also to friend P., who remarked, "I don't have any idea what happened here." This is to me a total summation of all things broken-computery. Imagine meeting a surgeon after he's operated on your kid: "I don't have any idea what happened here." "But is he okay?" "Oh, yeah, he's fine. It was the coolest thing. He was just about to die, but then I put a walnut in his shoe." "What?" "Yeah, I don't know either, but it worked. He's outside playing soccer; you can go pick him up."
One result of this capacitorial voodoo was me resolving to get rid of the Earthlink account. So I went to their site to cancel my account, reasoning with no small amount of idiocy that they were conversant with the usefulness of the Internet. Not at all! "To cancel your account, call this number." Of course. I knew what was coming: the hard sell to not drop the account. Some companies are just galling as shit. It's like going shopping, and then being met by someone standing in front of the door. "Are you sure you're done? You didn't get any watercress!" "I don't want any watercress." "Wait here. I'll get you some discount watercress."
Sure enough. After an interminable hold period, which, unbelievably, made me nostalgic for the days of soft jazz--now it's "DID YOU KNOW ABOUT THESE NEW FEATURES? I MIGHT COME IN MY PANTS JUST TELLING YOU ABOUT THEM! AND I'M ONLY A RECORDING!"--I got an actual human. "I need to cancel my account." "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that!" "Ah--" "Please hold while I transfer you." Because of course I hadn't picked the right phone menu option. There's a reason for that. There is no menu option for canceling your account. So you just pick the least stupid of options, which is of course wrong. I waited and listened to the automated voices hector me about their fabulous services. To hear Earthlink's annoy-o-bots tell it, they'd come give me rapturous blowjobs for the right price.
Another alleged human eventually came on the line, and I told her I needed to cancel my account. She sounded exactly like the first woman: "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. May I ask why?" I imagined her with puppy eyes, and of course lied. "My computer died rather spectacularly." "Oh, dear," she said. "You know, we can hold your account for a while at no charge . . ." Uh huh. Read: And we will activate the charges again in a few months. "Really, that's okay. I don't even like to talk about the crash. Many lives were lost. I should just cancel, thank you." But she was a pro. "Is there any way that we can help you? We have a big staff, maybe we can help you out with your crash. Let me ask you: do you need some fresh watercress?"
It was time to bring out the big guns. I jovially explained to her that the crash was actually very freeing, as it gave me an opportunity to use the innovative global communications method I had personally invented that involved a sophisticated system of amplified yodels and convulsive dance steps, all relayed by a complicated network of unemployed Bulgarian circus performers that I had cagily deployed all over the globe. She was unfazed.
"Mr. Kurruk," she breathed, "give Earthlink one last chance. I will personally come over to your house and suck the hair right off of your balls." I pointed out to her that I was recently married. "It's no problem," she replied, "she's just old meat. We here at Earthlink have killed for less. Have you visited our 'crush video' archives? Yesterday we filmed Marla Sokoloff getting a Buick dropped on her and streamed it live to our customers."
I thought about that for a while. Then I said, "I sure appreciate it. But I really ought to just cancel." I could almost hear her slump. "Yes, sir," she sighed. "I'll take care of that." I heard her typing, and I felt kind of bad. "I'm sorry," I said lamely. She brightened a bit. "Oh, it's okay. I feel bad too. You're missing out on some fucking stellar watercress."
Tuesday, 13 April
Things Fall Apart
The computer situation was getting intolerable. I had to write, after all, and there was no reason that a certified fucking computer wizard like myself had to put up with some snotty little iMac who wanted to snooze. So I decided: no more. I'd resolve this one way or the other.
First I remembered the mantra of every helpdesk person I'd ever talked to: Did you reboot? This is the first thing out of every IT person's mouth, ever, no matter what, even if you're asking them why your monitor suddenly burst into flames. "Did you reboot?" "Yes, I did, and it failed to correct the monitor-on-fire system error." Whenever I hear the question "Did you reboot?", I think of frat guys in college saying "Didja fuck her?"
Anyway. Remembering the sage advice of others, I rebooted. Several times. I booted and rebooted the fucking machine around the room for a half hour, pausing only to ice up my foot periodically, as it was swelling noticably. Finally, hobbled by pain, I had to give up, and thought that later I'd probably have to figure out how to reboot my foot, as it hurt like hell, and I wondered how I'd do that. But it sure didn't do much for the iMac. It still wasn't working at all, and its CD tray was sticking out at me obscenely.
I picked up the little green beast and stared at it, wondering what to do next. Then, struck by inspiration, I began searching for its ass. This isn't as weird as it sounds: many times I have found that when I mercilessly grope the wife's ass, she more often then not springs into action at the stimulus. I figured that the iMac, being far less sophisticated than the wife (the iMac is, in truth, about as sophisticated as a fucking plank of cedar) would respond in kind. I turned the thing over in my hands, searching without success for the thing's ass. It was ungoosable. I tried to improvise by ramming a screwdriver into a USB port for a while, but the thing didn't even flinch.
This was getting bad. I realized that I couldn't do this alone. I needed to call reinforcements. That's when I called George Clooney. My reasoning was, hey, a former fake doctor is just what I need in order to help me diagnose what was wrong with my former fake computer. He naturally agreed to come right over.
"I need booze," he said when he came in the door. "Whip me up an Asian Tennis Racket." I nodded and went to the bar--I was pleased that he remembered my special drink. I mixed sake together with a special liquor imported from Madagascar and poured over ice. George eyed it critically, and then drank like a fiend. "Show me the patient," he said throatily. I took him to the iMac.
He stared at it. "I see you tried rebooting," he said after a while. "For like half an hour," I replied. "And don't even try goosing the sonofabitch. Thing doesn't have any kind of ass at all." " 'Sallright . . . neither does Brad Pitt, you want to know the truth."
George began gingerly probing the iMac, looking for trouble spots. "Does this hurt? How about this?" he asked. The iMac remained reticent, but George was unperturbed. My man. Eventually, he stopped the examination and sat contemplatively on my sofa, taking a hit off of my giant 15-gallon bong, known as the Green Manalishi. He exhaled a fog front of bluish smoke.
"I think I know the problem," he wheezed. "There's a problem with the TCP/IP settings."
"You mean 'tickipip,' " I said, gently correcting him.
"Right, whatever. It seems that you've got a bad Melissa Etheridge card, and it's just playing 'Come To My Window' over and over." He frowned. "It's pretty bad."
"Jesus!" I screamed. "That's fucking horrible!"
"Yeah," George drawled, "I once saw a machine get stuck on 'I Want To Come Over,' and it shut itself down for good."
"There's no hope, then," I moaned gloomily. "I'm going to have to put it down. Nothing can withstand that kind of assault. Poor little tickipip." I started fixing another round of Asian Tennis Rackets while George lolled bonelessly on the sofa, caressing the Green Manalishi.
"Yeah," he said tonelessly as I handed him the drink, "you're gonna have to upgrade. Get you a new machine . . . with that OSX shit in it." He sipped distractedly. "Those fuckers got Neko Cases."
"Man," I said, toasting him. "Now you're talking."
Friday, 09 April
Flying Birds (Excellent Birds)
I have mentioned before that we have a pair of ducks who have adopted our patio pool as their hangout. They are, of course, unbelievably cute; granted, they have shat in the pool and all over the concrete, which is probably a drag for the cleaners, but come on. Humans regularly have cats as pets, and they shit right there in your own house, and nobody seems to mind. What's a little duckshit in the pool by comparison?
But no, the condozombies, who are mostly, I must stress again, almost all comically decrepit, continue to creepily bitch about the "duck problem." (I should take a moment here to assure those who might accuse me of making fun of old people just because they're old: I am.) It makes me sad. The wife and I really enjoy the ducks, particularly waddling up to them and croaking "Wak! Wak! Wak!" It seems to confuse them, and they tilt their heads at us. Then they take a crap, which we also find delightful. Or at least I do, partially because the animals lord it over us in the sense that we don't get to just take a dump wherever and whenever the mood strikes us. I have big dreams about sitting in one of my interminable meetings at work and letting loose. "So it turns out that this drug is most efficient when . . . ah . . . say, Skot . . . are you taking a shit?" "Boy, am I ever. It feels really great!" Then I'd tilt my head at people cutely, provoking chuckles of approval and a hearty comment from the bosslady. "I must say, that shows initiative! You get a raise." And I'd beam happily, sitting contentedly in a pile of shit, while my co-workers applauded.
Anyway. The ducks came by again the other day, and I was happily watching them splash around in the pool, doing that "I dunk my head for some reason!" thing that they do. Then all of a sudden: CRACK! CRACK! SPLOOSH! What the fuck? The ducks became agitated; invisible things were impacting around them. I craned my head to see what the hell was going on.
One of my neighbors, a hatchet-faced crone, had come out onto her balcony and was THROWING ICE CUBES AT THE DUCKS. Not like lobbing them just to sort of discomfit the poor birds, but hurling them with alarming strength and accuracy at the suddenly quacky little beasts. They flapped piteously while the harridan continued her merciless assault. I stared numbly at this horrible scene, unable to react, until the ducks finally had enough and flew away. The awful hag turned and lurched back into her apartment wordlessly.
Hey, you know what? DON'T HURT MY FUCKING DUCKS, YOU MUMMY! Ice cubes? That's mean. You can't just put out a nice big shiny pool of water out there on the patio and expect innocent waterfowl to ignore it, can you? The whole episode made my gut hurt, and I have ever since been entertaining fantasies about tormenting the elderly, because, you know, who else could I torment without fear of reprisal? Children, I guess.
The real bummer is, since the ice cube incident (Note: terrible name for a rock album), the ducks have not returned, for which I blame the crone. I will have my revenge. Someday soon, I will creep up to her apartment, and stealthily pick the lock, using thiefly skills I assume I have absorbed merely by watching bad cop shows on TV. Then, when I am inside--STALKING HER--I will strike. I will--I hate to be this graphic, but I'm mad--I will withhold her Lorna Doones. Yes. I will snatch them off the counter and hold them above my head. I will be a fucking horrible, cookie-clutching bastard.
"How does it feel now, you wizened husk? J'accuse, duck-pelter! I withhold your cookies!" I will cackle malevolently.
"I'm an old woman! Give me my Lorna Doooooooones!" She will tremulously wail while adjusting her oxygen feed.
But I will not give her the Lorna Doones. I know. It's rough justice.
Don't fuck with my ducks, dammit.
Wednesday, 07 April
Still The Sam
Beckett shuffled to the mound, contemplating his pitch count. His arm hurt. "I can't go on. I'll go on. " he muttered. He picked up the rosin bag. Rubbed it absently. "Go on failing. Go on. Only next time, try to fail better." He hurled a devastating sinker, and the batter waved at it pathetically. "Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it's awful." The umpire stood like a forlorn tree, and Beckett called to him: "Let's go." They did not move.
Friday, 02 April
Worms In The Goddamn Apple
Entries to the Pfaff may be sporadic for a while, depending--yesterday, the sackless, no-account iMac blew up spectacularly in the wife's face as she was saving a Word document. The shuddering little green bastard coughed once and then horked up a screen of textless nonsense, and accepted no further commands. The wife then attempted several restarts, with limited success: the recalcitrant beast refused to acknowledge that there was a modem lurking in its fucking guts.
So last night I attempted a software reinstall, which seemed successful, but since this was basically dumping the fucker in the river Lethe, it is now a newborn innocent little babe, and knows naught but factory settings. "Hey, what's your ISP phone number?" it cheerfully asks me. I don't fucking know! I have to get online to look that up! I hate computers.
I've printed out whole bunch of shit today in the hopes that I have enough information to goad the iMac into actual usefulness, but as I'm fearfully stupid, we'll see how it goes.
In the meantime . . . uh . . . I don't know. Click on my links over there. They're all porn-hounds, so chances are you'll find something good.