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LAST FIVE ENTRIES
The Sunday Suicide Ritual - 03.19.06
somnambulism: n, Jeremy on a Sunday night - 03.13.06
careful what you wish, you may regret it... - 03.05.06
somebody gona geta hurt real bad - 02.20.06
=NOT(rain V sleet V dark of night) - 01.31.06
too much Valentine's talk for a single guy - (02.15.05)
I have noticed, recently, that I have started to get quite a bit on the fat side. I'm not talking about the prerequiste fat that my self-depricating nature requires, and indeed, demands. I'm talking about making fatty grunts when I lean over to pick up a box of Ho-Hos. Volleyball doesn't generally help, mainly because it's only a couple hours of (despite all of the sweating) non-exercise a week. And I guess I don't really have to tell you that all of the ice cream I consume is not helping, either.
It's starting to turn into a bit of a vicious cycle. My knees have been bothering me lately (because I'm dragging around this piano of an ass, perhaps?), which means I'm much less inclined to, say, go for a run, even if Rachelle is literally kicking my ass out the door because she came all the way over here to go for a run and god dammit we're going to go for a run. Even if it ends up being a rather lot of walking and her pushing me into holly bushes.
Nevertheless, I need some form of exercise that's not only physically beneficial, but also enjoyable. Hmm, it...it sounds like some of that is taking place upstairs as I type this. God damn Valentine's day!
I still find it mildly amusing, even all of these years after figuring it out, that Valentine's could be shortened to VD. No doubt venereal diseases everywhere look forward to this day. Unfortunately, I usually then think that Veteran's Day has the same initals. Old people having sex and getting VD is about as ew as it gets. It's ew with a capital EW. Thankfully we have Rememberance Day here in Canada, and RD doesn't have quite the negative connotations. According to the Acronym Finder, it can range anywhere from "road" to "real decreto," Spanish for "royal decree." I'll take royal decree over burning pee any day, thank you very much.
The Super Bowl happened a while ago, and so now, some eight days later, we here at Textual Exhibitionism have full team coverage of the event. But since I really couldn't give a god damn about football, and the whole thing is such a farce anyway (see more pre- and post-game shows than the actual game itself), I'll focus on what half of the people are there to see anyway: the commercials.
Yes, the infamous Super Bowl spot, which no doubt now costs just shy of a hojillion dollars, is coveted by seemingly all companies. And who wouldn't? I mean, you've got millions of drunk idiots watching at home, who aren't willing to pull themselves away from the television long enough to drain some of that beer they've been pounding in case they miss some of the "action" so they just have a big bucket in the middle of the room that they all piss into from the comfort of their couch. That's the perfect time to barrage them with advertisements featuring your product being hawked by a celebrity or a girl with more silicone than gray matter.
Having a look at all of the ads that ran during the Big Game over at iFilm.com, something jumps out at me like a rabid pitbull: how did they have time to play football with all of those god damn commercials playing? One of these days Super Bowl Sunday is going to be just that, from 12 am to 11:59 pm, it will all be Super Bowl. Pre-game for 8 hours, game (and, increasingly more importantly, commecials) for 8 hours, and post-game for 8 hours. I guess the upside of that is that most of the idiots who drink their faces off during the game now will be so FUBAR'd by the time noon hits that we won't have to put up with their shit at night. I mean, it's one thing to celebrate. It is entirely another to knock on windows and yell into them that [insert winning team here] kicked those [insert losing team here] pussies' asses. I would suggest to you, sir, that you find a nice, quiet back alley and shove your head up your ass. If it's any motivation, maybe you can find some more of those pretzels that you ran out of at some point during the third quarter.
On the upside, if you take a Cialis, you can sport a wicked boner while you're doing it. But, according to the commecial, if your erection lasts longer than four hours, consult your doctor.
Four hours. Jesus. At some point you've just gotta get bored. You'd start planning your week, asking about dinner on Tuesday since you're going to be at work late. She'll tell you that she'll put your dinner in the fridge, and send the kids to your sister's because Tuesdays are movie nights with her friends. You'll feign interest (in between thrusts) and ask her if they have any idea what they'll be watching. She'll say that this week it's Lucy's turn to pick the movie, and she usually goes for the super sappy stuff with Robert Redford in it. Fuck, even that shit ain't gonna to kill that rager you've got going. You'd be better off running it under a cold tap and coming up with storylines for Janet Reno/Maggie Thatcher fanfic, though Cialis and it subsidiaries make no guarantees.
Anyway, while you're over there at iFilm, I would suggest you check out this link. It's Triumph the Insult Comic Dog at Spin Alley after one of the presidential debates from last year. If you've seen him at the Star Wars convention and needed a gut transplant from having it busted, you'll definitely love this. If you think Triumph is a lame concept and don't find his humour at all amusing, then I say: poo on you.
I made the mistake of calling my ISP today to find out about bandwidth restrictions. Apparently they're starting to actually enforce their 10 GB per month limit. You may recall my 4.9 GB per week downloading schedule. Of course, that's not counting all of the uploading that takes place, which is usually about double what I download (just the way BitTorrent usually works). I called them and had to give my phone number to the automated system before I could get through to talk to someone to find out about the restrictions. So now they know to watch out for me. Fantastic.
When I got home tonight I checked my usage online. So, we're about halfway through February. Guess what my usage is? Almost 350% of what I'm allowed. Halfway through the month and I've shattered, then burned, then shot my allowed levels into space strapped to a missle aimed for the God Damn Sun. Apparently around about 150% they call you up and tell you to lay off or suggest you switch a plan that will "more suit your high-bandwidth needs," which sounds suspciously like they're trying to sell me feminine hygiene products designed for my days of heavier flow. I expect I'll be getting a call soon suggesting that I just stop using The Entire Internet for a while to balance out my blatant un-knowing disrespect for their un-enforced guidelines. I suspect that my threat to "let me download everything or I'll switch to your competitor" will fall on deaf ears. Deaf ears hiding behind a three-foot wall of solid lead.
In an attempt to produce shorter, more frequent entries, I will call it an evening here. But before I go, I'd like to show you this, which will amaze and astound you far more than an upside-down mutated cow fetus ever could. If you don't know what the hell I just said, I suggest you do yourself an enormous favour and watch Firefly. You'd be a gorram fool not to.
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