Took a delivery to an office building. Park on curb. Walk into lobby. Take elevator up to the fourth floor. Go into reception area. Have trouble reading name on slip — damn Gary’s handwriting — finally just give secretary the extension number. Ah, I was reading “LILLY” as “LIUY.” Order already paid with credit card. $2 already on credit card. Lilly shows up, signs, hands me the slip plus two singles.

“The tip is already on the card,” I protest.

“I know. I wanted to give a little extra.”

LOVE!

It reads:

“Lord DONT forget the LvL MidSize LAdy This Wk. Thanks”

What do you think that means?

Remember my bandwidth thief? I tried being nice. Really, I did. But instead of even an apology or a “Oh, I didn’t know, thanks!”, this is the most I get (and in her comment section, no less!):

ditto callie. is this about robbing clip art, photography, and ads, cuz if so, i’m going to jail. gasp!! Or is it about linking. I actually researched this last night . . . daunting.

Whatever. It’s not the thieving that I care about — she’s new to the internet, everyone needs to learn, etcetra. But the flip response, when I’ve tried to explain it to her, just really, y’know?

Buttons. Pushing.

So …

Becomes:

I’d like to be able to take the credit for this technical slight-of-hand, but I was having difficulty replacing the image — I think a lot of that had to do with uploading the image when this blog was Moveable Type, and then trying to replace it on Word Press. Probably, it just has to do with me being technically inept, so Tim helped me out, went in, and renamed the original image. (I was going to replace it with a hissing cat, or, y’know, a photo of my penis*).

*Which, by the way, I call “Gigantor The Great Big One”, and you almost all could’ve seen it. Alas. (For you!)

The kid finally answers the door. There’s no doorbell, of course, so I’ve been forced to smash my knuckles into the frame, loudly, repeatedly. The workers landscaping in front of the house can fucking hear me. They shouted something in Spanish. Probably, “Dude, he ain’t gonna tip, why bother?”

Kid answers the door. He’s trying to be ghetto-fabulous, using words like “yo” and “homie” while his older sister and her friend look mortified behind him. He thanks me for driving out to the hood, then tells me he’s only got change. Oh, what a surprise. I go out to this house every few weeks. Always gotta wait for the little fucker, then even longer for the money, while he rubs this tough-as-nails persona in my face.

It’s a wonder his parents don’t beat him.

“Don’t you want to come in and get the change?” he asks.

Fuck no. His parents aren’t home and I’m not going in his house without an adult present. He’s probably fifteen, but he’s acting like he’s five. Yes, I’m quite certain his sister is literally dying of embarassment.

He frantically runs around the kitchen looking for a bag to put the change in. Seriously, you couldn’t have tackled this problem before ordering a pizza? What a dipstick. He winds up taking his cheesesteak out of the brown paper bag it was delivered in and shovels the change into it. He tells me it’s all in quarters and is $23, a cheap $2.50 tip. Later, back at the store, I count it — it’s $22, and half of that is dimes.

I could hate him for taking so fucking long and not being prepared and paying in coins and being stupid, but really, I think I hate him for his faux tough guy routine, which is so fake it isn’t funny.

There are a lot of reason not to buy into his tough guy routine. For one thing, I’m sure sticking him on the corner of York and Cranbrook in Cockeysillve would be enough for him to break down crying for mommy and daddy — stick him in Hampden, heck, he might even poo his pants. How do I know this? He lives on a golf course. And when I say he lives on a golf course, I don’t mean he lives right next to a golf course, I mean, I’ve gotta drive between two holes and yield to golf carts to get to his house lives on a golf course.

But do you want to know the real reason I never buy his tough guy routine?

He’s got his hair in a fucking perm.

After WWII, when its cities lay burning, Japan’s constitution was rewritten by the nation’s Allied conquerors, and ever since, it is constitutionally illegal for that country to wage war. Japan’s government has long interpreted their constitution to provide for a “defensive force”, hence, the Japanese warship in Baltimore Harbor a few weeks ago.

Last week, the North Koreans fired off several missiles. Japan is, understandably, a little upset by this — yet, even if their constitution were changed or ammended, Japan doesn’t have the tools to do the job.

A Defense Agency spokeswoman, however, said Japan has no offensive weapons such as ballistic missiles that could reach North Korea. Its forces only have ground-to-air missiles and ground-to-vessel missiles, she said on condition of anonymity because of official policy.

Japanese fighter jets and pilots are not capable of carrying out such an attack, a military analyst said.

“Japan’s air force is top class in defending the nation’s airspace, but attacking another country is almost impossible,” said analyst Kazuhisa Ogawa.

“Even if Japan’s planes made it to North Korea, they wouldn’t make it back … it would be an act of suicide,” he said. “Japan has no capacity to wage war.”

Three quarters of a century ago, the Japanese Empire was the scourge of Asia and the Pacific Ocean. That nation was responsible for countless invasions, millions of deaths, and long wars that destroyed nations. But Japan isn’t the country anymore, and over the last sixty years, they’ve been a consistent ally of the United States, even sending troops to Iraq.

And when it comes down to it, North Korea is being led by a dictator — it’s people starve under his despotic regime, and this is a guy who is only going to understand force. Worse, he’s actually got weapons of mass destruction, and I don’t think he’s got enough self-preservation instincts to keep from using them.

Digger remarks, “There is continued talk of giving North Korea “incentives” in order to get them to stop. Enough of the carrots, they don’t work with this crazy guy, time for more of the stick approach.”

I agree.

My opposition to the War in Iraq was based on numerous beliefs. One of those beliefs was that North Korea presented a much more present danger to the safety and security of the United States and our allies. We’ve spread our military so thin, I don’t think we have the military capacity to do more than air superiority bombing campaigns, and I think we’ve spread our political capital so thin over Iraq that we won’t be able to muster a coalition even for an air only campaign.

Japan is going to have to take the lead in any Eurasian Coalition action against Korea. I think that country still has a lot of resentment to overcome from other Pacific nations regarding its conduct during the second World War, but it’s coming to the point where either bygones can be bygoned, or those long-ago grudges will endanger the current security of the area.

Not so many months ago, Steve enacted a ban on IEDs at the Franchise. “Improvised Explosive Device”? No, “Illicit Electronic Devices”*, which were interfering with the operation of the store and the workhabits of the staff — namely, hand-held computer games, DVD players, and notebook computers.

I loved being able to bring my notebook in. Sure, internet connections were hard to find, but by sitting out on the rear-deck, you could get a weak one. I prefered to watch DVDs. I’d push the employee soda machine out of the way, plug the laptop in, plug some headphones in, and zone out to movies. E.G. and I got through half the first season of BSG one very slow Sunday that way.

Then the ban went into effect. It made sense, but I was still angry about it. What? I can’t watch DVDs at work anymore? Fuckers!

But whatever, the ban went into effect, and almost immediately was violated by Zebulon deciding to ignore it and continuing to bring his laptop in. When he did it, I violated the ban too, and so did Ghetto Boy and E.G. Greg found out about it, everyone got a lecture, and until today, we’ve all respect the “No IED” policy. The most electronic thing I bring is my cell phone, and I’ll throw a hissy-fit like has never been seen before if anyone tries to enact a “No WMP**” policy.

I bring books to read when it’s going to be slow.

Today, Zebulon brought his laptop in.

It’s like, some people just never learn. Now I know that when Greg gets wind of this, I’m going to be lectured because he’ll assume everyone’s back to violating the policy. Dammit, Zeb, leave the stupid computer at home.

*I don’t know who came up with the “illicit electronic device” moniker, or if they did it because of the oft mentioned explosive IEDs in the news, but if it was Greg or Steve, one of those two is much cleverer than I’ve given them past credit for being.

*Written Materials Production

I think it’s adorable.

The creator also built a pretty neat “doll house” Death Star.

Audio books don’t count as reading.

Discuss.

Most Like George W. Bush? OH MY DEAR GOD. (I couldn’t have gotten FDR? Or even Clinton? Crap crap crap crap).

You Are Most Like George W. Bush

So what if you’re not exactly popular? You still rule the free world. And while you may be quite conservative now, you knew how to party back in the day!

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck

the internets hate me

icanfeelmyselfgettingstupiderandstupider

The fighter cuts through the atmosphere. The pilot checks his instruments and fires his three, rear-mounted engines. The fighter accelerates, helped along by gravity. Voices are audible through his helmet’s speakers — controllers from his homeship, guiding him on target. The continents approach at dizzying speed. He feels like he’s going to throw up, the powerful hand of gravity pushes him against the seat. He doesn’t let off the engines.

Below, many many miles below, a scared pizza guy is forced to accelerate down a winding country road, a drunk redneck in a huge pickup tank only a few feet off his rear bumper, and not showing any inclination to retreat. There are no side streets, no emergency lane. The pizza guy can’t do anything but accelerate — anything else means death.

The fighter pilot levels off above a bank of clouds. His engines are roaring consistently. In space, he could shut them off and coast, but in atmo, he’s gotta keep ‘em going if he wants to stay in the air. His craft — 1104NC painted in black on the hull — with it’s sleek and trimmed appearance, was designed for space combat, despite the stubby three-wings and the white with red-trim paint, it’ll plummet like a rock and shatter against the ground if he lets it. He banks onto the left wing and dips into the clouds.

The speed limit says thirty. The pizza guy is already in fifth gear, doing well over fifty. The pickup tank looms large and mighty in the rearview mirror, which reads, “Objects in Mirror May Be Closer Than They Appear.” Any closer, and he’d be sitting on the bumper, the pizza guy knows. He gives his car more speed, terrified of encountering a deer standing stupidly on the road. He racks his brain, trying to think when the road has a stretch long enough for him to be passed.

The pilot can’t see anything but the milky white of the clouds. He’s completely on voice and instrument control. Controllers hundreds of miles away, sitting at banks of computer stations, relay information to him — distance, altitude, speed both of himself and his target. He dips the nose of his fighter, slightly. He begins to descend through the clouds. On his right-side control panel, he flips open a red plastic cover to reveal a red button. He presses it. An indicator light on his dashboard turns solid green: weapon systems online. His index finger hovers over the trigger on his control stick.

The road dips and turns. The pizza car slides as the tires lose traction on a scattering of gravel and dirt. It’s a close one — he nearly slides off the road, but he fights, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tight, his teeth clenched tighter. Downshits automatically, and he recovers control, his foot stomps the right-most pedal. In the rear view mirror, the pickup tank fights for control too, then corrects, and is accelerating again. The pizza guy makes a decision — he’s got a sports car, and the road ahead slopes upward and is long and clear. Time to see what this puppy can do, but it’s too late, the pickup tank is already gaining much faster, and the pizza guy knows that he’s about to go flying into a tree at upwards of sixty miles per hour.

The pilot grimaces, then explodes his fighter down through the last of the clouds. He’s over a long road, right where his controllers and his instruments said he would be. He pulls up on the stick just enough to keep from impacting against the asphalt, yet maintaining an aggressive charge, just above tree level. He’s running right over the road, at such an impressive speed he’s atop his target before he has time to enjoy himself.

The pickup tank driver has just enough time to realize that a Colonial Viper Mk. II is firing at him before his tank is ripped apart by severe cannon fire. The pizza guy waves out his window — just in the nick of time, two seconds later and the pizza guy would be wrapped around a tree — but the fighter is already pulling hard for the clouds.

Huh?

Okay, so here’s the deal, I daydream. A lot. Especially at work, because the choices I face are “daydream” or “work”, and, frankly, I prefer daydreaming. I keep one of these in my car to play with as I drive — right, how much of a safe driver am I?* Well, very. Except when I’m playing “fighter pilot” when I should be concentrating more. We all have our strange habits —

– mine is that I’m delusional. Well, no, but it’s fair to say I live an active fantasy life. Part of it, y’know, the expected fantasy life of a horny adult male in his mid-twenties. The other day I was in an elevator with an attractive woman in her mid-30’s with a Russian accent. I had a fantasy of throwing aside the stack of greasy pizza boxes I was carrying and having my way with her.

There are two popular fantasies I’ve been having lately. Well, let me qualify that: non sexual-fantasies. I.E., where I don’t want to be in a ten-some with nine hot ladies.

The first is one I’ve been having for years, where instead of being an average joe schmore, I am in reality a long-lived Immortal, trying to disguise myself in modern society, but carrying a sword under my jacket and capable of some pretty kick-ass sword manuevers and head-decapitation-chops.

The second is, well, the one above, where I fly a space fighter down from the heavens and illuminate tailgaters and road ragers with cannon and rocket fire. I should probably blow myself up, too, what with playing with diecast models when I should be concentrating on my driving. But I play safe — I swear!

I guess there’s probably some psycho-babble rationalization for these fantasies, and I can offer a realistic one too. That I’m role-playing (with in-head narration) as a way to develop my writing skills. I drive along, and I’ll literally narrate to myself, ‘the immortal turns, sword in his hand. He’s pissed, marching back down the hall. He twirls the blade, brings it up in an attack…’ And, y’know, maybe there’s some truth in that, verbilizing while in a car — because writing & driving don’t mix — in an attempt to figure out a tricky turn of phrase or what-have-you.

And the psycho-babble rationalization would probably be that I don’t feel important in my current role in life, and I’m trying to build myself up, to myself. I guess there’s probably some truth in that too.

Of course, the big thing about fantasizing is knowing where to draw a line — when I’m stiffed, I don’t whip out a toy sword and try to decapitate them. I don’t confront bad drivers and tell them that if they don’t get their act together, I’m going to divebomb the shit out of their garage when I get back to my spaceship. There’s a line, and I know where it is, and I never come close to crossing it.

(I have, on occasion, caught myself saying ‘Jeff said’ or ‘I said’ as I begin speaking, a strange side-effect of my lonely monologues with usually myself as sole audience).

*And seriously, what’s the fucking point of buying toys if you’re not going to play with them? Like I’m the only one.

You’ve heard of restaraunts that require customers to sign waivers before eating super-hot wings?

This place has a waiver too. Except you’re not eating super hot wings …

… but super hot ice-cream.

“It tastes like fire — with a side of fire.”

Of course, since I’m going back to the drawing board on this one, this post might as well never be written. In any case, what we have here is the original engine set up for Zeus — one large engine, two mediums, and two tiny. There probably would’ve been another large engine stacked atop that first one. I don’t know what — exactly — those little fins are supposed to be for … shields?

Next, we come down to these defensive positions. Inspired — clearly — by this guy’s weapon systems. Those gray round pieces are just place holders — I think these might eventually become anti-torpedo rocket launchers. Or space depth charges. I dunno. But I like the big industrial look. They still need tinkerin’.