You Leave Me No Choice

No headbutts for you. I'm pissed.

You know what space is for? It's for me to write. It's for people who I know to come here and read what I write. It's for people I know to come here and comment on what they have read. If some random person stumbles onto this space and wants to read, hey, be my guest. They might have no clue what's going on, but how does that differ from everyone else that's out there?

But instead, there are some bastards out there that like to come here and try to use my space as a billboard. They like to put up a link for their business so that they can make money off of my space. Well, if anyone is going to be a corporate whore here, it's going not to be me.

Honestly, maybe 11 people read these things. If you really need the advertising that bad, I think your company has more problems than you are willing to admit. Your comments aren't even construed to be passed off as a real person that's suggesting some product I might actually be able to use. Home surveillance equipment? When did I ever talk about that? A PDF writer? If you were talking about a death ray, I'd be interested. My own jet engine? Sure, whaddya got? But not the crap you guys are trying to pass off.

So now, you have to be a real human to be able to post a comment. Sorry about the extra hassle that means, but I must protect my non-whoredom. I hope you'll understand, but if not, I don't really care, so take that!

I guess I owe you guys a link, so here you go.

K bye.

Sweet Kelly Clarkson!

It's headbutt, it's headbutt, it's big, it's heavy, it's wood.
It's headbutt, it's headbutt, it's better than bad, it's good!

First thing's first: only the mexican satisfies the worm.

And let's get this out of the way: they had better be buying some really good crap with that money.

Let's say you had an exorbitant amount of money. I mean, a really huge assload of money that you just found, say in the amount of $54 million dollars. You didn't have to give it back, it was yours and you could spend it as you pleased. What could you possibly do with $54 million dollars? Well, my groupies, let me tell you.

You could buy 818,526,240 Chinese finger traps. This would be especially useful if you had 1,637,052,480 fingers for which to use them.

You could probably buy an island or two. I'm not about to tell you which island you should buy, because it's completely a personal preference, and I don't want to be one that infringes on that aspect of your life. But if I had my way, I'd go for Sri Lanka. It's close to Michael Caine's 1000 acre tea plantation.

You could pay my rent (assuming that my place has rent control. Ahhhh, rent control... how I miss you) for the next 27,000 months. Of course, this would mean that I'd have to live until I was 2,273, and no offense, something tells me I'll be long gone before then.

You could be the proud owner of 2,706,766 Chia pet turtles. Of course, you might have to settle for only 2,705,832 of them since your water bill would go through the roof.

You would also be able to purchase 9,818,181 non-returning boomerangs. Note that this is completely different than the returning boomerangs, of which you could own only 5,410,821. Hey, somebody has to pay for that extra distance.

Assuming that you lived for another 65 years and kept working up until the time of your death, you could be paid just under $.03 a second. Now, this isn't 3 cents a second to do work, this is just 3 cents a second to live. Every second that you were alive (excluding leap year days, because you live for free on those, you greedy bastard), you would be paid 3 cents. You could be clubbing a baby seal to death, and you would still be getting paid 3 cents a second.

Don't forget that you could be the proud owner of 16,927,899 copies of Tecmo Bowl. Assuming that you were able to find 16,927,898 other friends who had a working Nintendo and television, and then another 16,927,899 people who just had Nintendo controllers, you could have a pretty swell little Tecmo Bowl tournament going on. Just so long as I get Warren Moon, Drew Hill and the rest of the Houston Oilers. That run and shoot offense was absolutely sick.

And then there's the 600,200 remote control cars you could purchase. This one is a little bit pricey, but when you have $54 million, what's a little excess now and then?

Finally, you could take all that money and convert it into pennies, giving you 540,000,000 pennies. Then you could take those pennies and throw one at the head of every 12th person you came across. In the entire world. At the end of the day, you'd still have enough pennies left over to buy yourself a hotdog and a can of soda. Excellent!

So you see, there really are a lot of things you can do with a spare $54 million dollars lying around. Man, I really wish I had that much extra money so I could waste it....

K bye.

Good Luck In The Indy 500

A headbutt to soothe your worries. And give you a headache.

First things first: thanks for the cigar. It is so prominently displayed I've already had Milton mutter, "that's a huge cigar" as he walked past.

And let's get this out of the way: you will know way more information that you wanted to know by the end of reading this.

I believe it's time for a life update. I usually don't do these other than the occasional "my weekend was better than yours" thing, but since there are masses upon hordes of people reading this now, I figured it was the right time to fill everyone in. Let those who are on the outside feel like they are on the inside, if only for the next 150 seconds.

I've decided to teach the dwarf in the TV (who's been rather silent recently. I wonder if it has anything to do with the fact that we stopped putting water out for him at night?) English. Since a lot of you couldn't use context clues (ahem....family) to determine that he is indeed Portuguese, and you can't speak fluent Portuguese like those of us at 8010, I feel like sending him once a week to a community college so he can learn English is only the right thing to do. Of course, the money for the class will come out of his paycheck, and since he doesn't get paid, well, he can work it off slowly. But now instead of having to translate what he says in Portuguese to English, he'll be able to speak in broken, half-assed sentences to you. Have fun with that.

Apparently I've been plagued with something called the "Kiss of Death". It's a very rare disease that strickens only a select few people every year. Some of the side effects are switching jobs, laziness, and a severe reaction to orange Gatorade. Please send your get-well cards and cash donations.

I have decided to become a running beast again. This was facilitated by two pictures of me (in my prime, no less) and the purchase of shiny new running shoes. Whether this goal actually happens is in question, because I've also purchased now-grass-stained keeper gloves in my ambition to become a world-class indoor soccer goalkeeper. Any advice on which goal to pursue will be listened to and then completely ignored.

Last weekend I got a tattoo. You might be asking, "well, what did you get?," to which I answer, "a tattoo you moron." As for the design, it is a dragon. But this is no ordinary dragon. This is a dragon with 8" claws scaling a tower in ancient Babylon while being pelted with small cows launched from giant bazooka that is being held by Oscar Wilde dressed in a loincloth. And before you ask, yes I did make sure that the dragon looked like Trogdor.

Misanthropopotamuses. Get them while they are hot. I apologize for not having a link to what exactly a misanthropopotamus is, but if I showed you, I'd have to kill you. Or at least give you a few icily cold glances when you weren't looking.

And oh yeah, I almost forgot. I'm getting married in November. All are invited. Bring food.

K bye.

Sheer And Utter Chaos

Sunday headbutt.

First things first: bring on the fantasy baseball championship!

And let's get this out of the way: the odds of this actually happening are mind-boggling.

Let's talk names and numbers for awhile. You meet someone, hopefully you find out what their name is. Let's assume, for the sake of my argument so that I will be right, that most all people have 3 words to their name: first, middle, and last.

There are a lot of name combinations that could make up those three words. You have a million or so names for your first name, we'll say 100,000 or so for a middle name, and maybe 500,000 or so for a last name. So the odds of two people have the exact same first, middle, and last name are quite low. The odds of those two people spelling their names exactly the same, instead of a Steven-Stephen situation, is even lower.

So what the hell are the odds that I would meet someone this weekend that has the exact same name (first middle last and spelling too) as someone that I was already friends with? I'll tell you what they are, absolutely freaking ridiculous, that's what. But it actually happened.

So what does this mean? Are the stars aligned in some way that this is a sign that I must interpret? Should I immediately start playing the lottery? Maybe this is someone's way of telling me I should let the TV dwarf out for some much needed exposure to sunlight. Or maybe it means that my ideas won't keep getting stolen by that 4'8" guy at night. As great as those ideas are, they aren't the right answer. But I have figured out the true answer.

It means that I am immortal.

But it also means that these people can never meet. They must be kept apart for all time, never to get within 3.7 miles of each other. I fear what would happen to the world if they did. I can't imagine the chaos that their combined auras would produce. It's almost unfathomable.

At least I got that immortal thing going.

K bye.