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December 2004

This is my... four leaf Cuban.
na na na na na | Thursday, 12.30.04
Nothing goes better with a night of drinking and shooting pool than a Cuban sandwich from a diner. Oh wait, actually, there is one thing that goes better... pirated songs from the 80's supergroup Tears for Fears, compliments of the newest member of the tmh family, thismayhurt.NET. Click the Cuban to hear my true feelings for an action packed sandwich filled to the brim with seventeen varities of pork, a gaggle of pickles and enough mayo to choke a oh god I don't even care, it's 3:20 in the fucking morning.

Have a great New Years and don't forget to look both ways before running that red light and driving straight into your new home in the cemetary.

Ignore the date in the byline below, it is inefficient and should be shot.
>> DON'T BELIEVE THE LIES >> | Tuesday, 12.21.04
When I read the sentence "Wouldn't it be convenient if your birthday, Christmas, and the Fourth of July--not to mention most other major holidays--all fell on the same day of the week, year after year?", I was instantly confused. How the fuck could the Fourth of July land in September and December? No internet, I'm afraid that's not very convenient at all, because not only am I losing a day off from work, I'm also getting gypped on my gift intake, and this is just retarded. And let's not even get started on the complexities of blowing out candles, shooting off firecrackers and celebrating the birth of baby Santa all on the same day. Then it occurred to me that my reading comprehension is not so great, so I decided to read the original sentence, plus a few more sentences after it for context clues. Here's what I found...

Wouldn't it be convenient if your birthday, Christmas, and the Fourth of July--not to mention most other major holidays--all fell on the same day of the week, year after year? Wouldn't it make life--or at least planning--easier, for instance, to know that Dec. 17 would always fall on a Saturday or that January 1--New Year's Day--would always be celebrated on a Sunday?

Richard Conn Henry, professor in the Henry A. Rowland Department of Physics and Astronomy at The Johns Hopkins University, thinks it would. He has designed--using computer programs and complex mathematical formulas--a new calendar that would make it happen.

Under Henry's plan, each new 12-month period is identical to the one that came before. Each month has either 30 or 31 days.
-- John Hopkins Institutions (it's been slashdotted, keep clicking)

OK, I think I figured out the month, give me a few hours and I'll tell you the date.
See what happens when you use context clues, sound out the hard words orally and use your index finger to ensure that you're reading in a straight line? It helped me realize that Richard Conn Henry, professor in the Henry A. Rowland Department of Physics and Astronomy at The John Hopkins University is out of his fucking mind, and there is no graphing calculator big enough to help him get it back. I really wish I could toss and turn night after night, cursing our abysmal calendar system because it's just not efficient enough.

"Just ask yourself how much time and effort are expended each year in redesigning the calendar of every single organization worldwide to accommodate the coming year's calendar, and it becomes obvious that my calendar would make life much simpler ... for businesses and other institutions," Henry said.

Although I'm not a business or an other institution, would you like to know how much time I expend thinking about dates and their accompanying days of the week? About five seconds. And that's the five seconds I spend flipping through a new calendar to see what day of the week my birthday lands on. So much productivity wasted! No! I cannot have this! I must make a better calendar and replace the days of the week with numbers and fractions and decimal points with lines over them to show that they repeat until long after we are all dead.

With his patented "Calendar-and-Time Plan" (or C&T if you want to be so efficient that even God himself will be all like, "Damn, this nigga's crazy efficient and shit"), Henry plans to make every year the same until the year 10,000, because by that time it will be completely impossible to shorten the year to two digits, which is so inefficient that I just wet myself trying to wrap my head around it. The C&T plan will also screw around with time itself, and since I have no idea what the hell he's talking about, I'm just going to assume that the clocks we have today will become completely worthless thanks to Prof. Henry, because they don't come equipped with 15 hands that only rotate on the 17th day of the 54th month of the quad-year to the third power.

The world is an imperfect place. You may think that there are 365 days in a year, but you'd be wrong, and your ignorance would land your ass in The People’s C&T Court, with Judge Richard Conn Henry presiding. There are actually 365.2422 days, which is why God invented the leap year, where we subtract a day from February every four years to make sure the Earth doesn't start spinning the other direction and send us all back in time. But nevermore! Not with the new and improved C&T calendar!


Henry thinks he has found a better solution: drop leap year entirely and institute, instead, a one-week "mini-month" between June and July every five or six years. In honor of his personal hero, Sir Isaac Newton, Henry has dubbed this seven-day period "Newton." His computer calculation ensures that "Newton Week" brings the new calendar in sync with seasonal changes as the Earth circles the sun.

Finally someone has the balls to eliminate those pesky leap years and just start arbitrarily adding weeks to the calendar whenever the fuck he feels like it. Never one to miss the opportunity to drop a hilarious nerd joke, Henry said, much to the bemusement of the world, "If I had my way, everyone would get Newton Week off as a paid vacation and could spend the time doing physics, or other activities of their choice." Oh ho ho ho ho! While working on physics problems for fun is probably as exciting as having a team of studly coal miners jackhammer a hole into my brain, here's my activity of choice: REVOLTING AGAINST THIS COCKAMAMIE NERD CALENDAR SYSTEM.

Just look at this goddamned thing. I never thought you could make a calendar look more sterile, but science has found a way, just like the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park found a way to reproduce even though they were all female CGI puppets. Let's just assume that the normal, Gregorian calendar industry makes $5 bajillion a year. Whoops, looks like you're all homeless now because we only need one calendar since the days, weeks, and months never change unless it's a Newton week during the 32nd phase of the red moon during summer solstice in Nerd Land, just off the Parkway. Normal calendars will be sold on the black market for thousands of dollars. Soon months will be replaced with colors, and dates will be replaced with atomic symbols from the Period Table of Elements, and years will be replaced with Star Trek characters, so instead of writing December 21st, 2004 on a check, you'd have to write Fuchsia Mg, B'Elanna Torres. Don't you see? Is this more efficient Professor Richard Conn Henry? Is it? Look, I have to go, but I'm going to call you again at 87:321:45.17-b o'clock, so you better be home.

Harvest bagels are nature's candy. In bagel form.
RIP: Schmidty, Jonesy and Polok Steve. | Wednesday, 12.15.04
Did you know 8 million people die every year from slicing their hands open while cutting bagels? It's probably true.
I've undertaken many quests in my time, from rescuing Princess Zelda from a large demon pig that may or may not be blue for some reason, to walking all the way downstairs to see if we had any of that fancy ice cream left in the freezer (which we did not, and I'm fairly certain that I only ate 5 pints worth in the past two days). But my current quest surpasses the questiness of all of the other quests, even if they were held together with special quest-enhancing duct tape and hallucinatory model glue. This new quest is so important, that I'm going to create a line break here, and I may be so bold as to center the text to give it that special "razzle dazzle" it desperately deserves, unless it looks retarded. The quest is simple...

Discover the secret ingredients of a Dunkin' Donuts Harvest Bagel

Like many quests, this one began in the local Dunkin' Donuts on a late weekday evening. Myself and my fellow scientist gal pal Rachel were there for our regular hot fluid intake, a medium French Vanilla coffee with milk and two sugars for myself, and a small tea with skim milk and three Equals for the lady. As the pastry slave prepared our beverages, we soaked in the awesome splendor of the racks and racks of baked goods, each more delectable and powdery than the last. Most of the donuts and bagels are labeled, so that you don't have to resort to finger pointing and simplistic grunting when ordering your food. You can't walk into Dunkin' Donuts like Luke walked into the cantina and order an ambiguous "one of those;" you have to speak the Donut language, or Donish as they call it in the Dunkin' Donuts training video that I just created for comedic purposes. And just what the hell was Luke ordering in the cantina anyway? Pssh, "one of those." What the fuck do I look like, the magical Jedi bartender whose awesome Force power involves guessing whatever space drink you want to wrap your stupid whiney lips around? Why don't you, Sir Alec Guinness, and your faggoty droids get the fuck out my bar before I start sicking my posse of CGI blokes on your asses.

What the fuck was I talking about again? Right, the rows and rows of bagels and donuts. Anyway, we're scoping out the names of the bagels and donuts... there's the Atkins NO CARBS SO ENJOY 15 SERVINGS bagel, the Purple Motherfucker donut and, my favorite, the "plainer than a plain sack of unflavored doorknobs" donut. Rachel noticed a bagel nametag that read, "Harvest bagel," and since she hasn't earned her PhD in bagel ingrediants yet, she asked me what was in a Harvest bagel, to which I replied, "oats," because the comedy never stops when I'm your boyfriend. Not particularly satisfied with my answer, Rachel decided to query the pastry slave as to the contents of the mystery bagel...

Pastry Slave: Is there anything else I can help you with?
Rachel: Uh, yeah, what's in a Harvest bagel?
Pastry Slave: Yes, we have Harvest bagels, you want one?
Rachel: No, I just want to know what's in them.
Pastry Slave: Um, I... don't... really know.
Rachel: Oh, OK, thanks anyway.
John: Hahaha, oats.

Ah ha ha ha! We are enjoying our donuts muchly, please take our picture so that we may remember this moment forever!
See, most bagel names are fairly descriptive. A salted bagel is covered in salt. An onion bagel tastes like shit. A plain bagel can fly a plane. An everything bagel is covered in salt, tastes like shit, can fly a plane, and is lightly sprinkled with cigarette ashes. What do you think of when you hear, "I'd like a Harvest bagel, Sammie," besides who the fuck is Sammie? Can you order extra "harvest" on your Harvest bagel? You could try, and the pastry slave could try to fulfill your order because you, as a customer, are always right and always hungry for more harvesty goodness, but chances are you will not receive your order because no one knows what the fuck you're talking about. If I was a crotchety old man, I'd write a letter to my local paper and complain about the Harvest bagels and ask to have them removed from the shelves by sundown, or else. Or else what? the city council and the board of directors at Dunkin' Donuts HQ would ask. And I wouldn't have an answer because I was too old, and I would die from a massive stroke just thinking about the horrible injustices that the Harvest bagel was forcing upon me and my veteran friends, like Schmidty, Jonesy and Polok Steve.

Slightly amused, but not wetting ourselves over it, Rachel and I enjoyed our drinks, made sweet love in the dumpster behind the Dunkin' Donuts, and retired to our separate homes for the evening. A few nights later, we found ourselves in a different, and much dirtier Dunkin' Donuts for refueling. Once again, we asked the clerk what was in the Harvest bagel, once again they had no clue, and once again I dished out the comedy answer by naming random farming implements that were shrunk down and turned into bagels. "This is getting ridiculous," we both thought to ourselves, but neither one of us wanted to say it aloud because neither one of us are bagel aficionados, but I mean seriously, what the fuck, Dunkin' Donuts? We just want to know what's in the Harvest bagel because we're interested in stealing your recipe and opening a franchise of bagel shops that sell nothing but Harvest bagels for $.05 less than you. This is my quest, and I am an army of one. Well, two if you count Rachel. And three if you count my attorney who also wants a piece of the action. So let's go with three. Right? Sure, three sounds good. This is my quest, and I am an army of three.

This update is as enjoyable as hearing dogs bark the tune to "Jingle Bells."
It is not very enjoyable. | Friday, 12.10.04
Doesn't this festive little thing just scream, "Have a warm and lovely holiday... I guess. I mean, if you want to, it's totally up to you. I am a horrible decoration that would make even a blind man weep."
I was listening to a news report on the radio the other day (because I'm still a hard-hitting journalist with my ear, nose and throat firmly planted in or on the pulse of hard-hitting newsstuffs) about current trends in Christmas decorations. Basically, as we are becoming more and technologically savvy with cooler looking gadgets around the house, we need cooler looking decorations to match our Wega TV's, our dancing robots and our automatic can openers. Since the report was on the radio, and I lack the part of the brain that would allow me to imagine what these new art-deco decorations would look like in a positive light, I'm just going to assume for argument's sake that they're utterly confusing, painted flat silver and are seriously lacking in the holiday cheer department. The kind of decorations that say, "well, we're actually Atheists, but we thought this gray baby Jesus tapestry would look perfect on our plain white wall in our plain white house, located on 123 Plain White Place in Honkeytown, USA. I don't want to harsh your mellow or anything, but would it be p.c. to wish you a happy holiday or something?"

Christmas decorations come in all sorts of spicy flavors, from tasteful, boring candles to gaudy, horrible lawn fawn that burn with the intensity of Hitler's birthday candles in Hell. Even though it's normal to drive past the Times Square-ish monstrosities and shake your head in a "what the fuck" manner after the temporary blindness wears off, it just wouldn't be Christmas without them. My family's pretty low-key when it comes to decorations (just candles in the windows and a tree), but that's only because we hate Jesus, and we usually don't have any room on our lawn because the neighbors think it's funny to leave those burning crosses and bags of excrement among the bushes and lawn gnomes. So I rely on the crazy neighborhood handymen to provide my holiday cheer with their singing Santas, their rotating nativity scenes and their trips to the emergency room after a faulty icicle light sends 120 jillion watts through their now liquefied bodies.

I wrote the first two paragraphs about two days ago, and right now I'm too weak to go back and read what they were about, or even attempt to finish this update by staying on topic. I'm very sick at the moment, and the only prescription that makes any sense to me is an aluminum baseball bat across the back of the head so I could get some uninterrupted sleep. My head is chock full of liquidy things that turn simple tasks like "walking down a hallway" or "driving with my eyes open" extremely difficult and intense.

OK, now it's another day later, and even though this update is only a couple hundred words long, it's officially the longest and worst update in tmh history, and that's saying nothing. I'm not sure what kind of magical voodoo ingredients are in Advil Cold and Sinus, but whatever they are, they kick my pansy symptoms right to the curb, and beat them about the head and neck for being so weak and stupid. This summer when we went to Vegas, I was immediately stricken by some strange phantom cold right before I got on the plane. My nose was running, my ears were ringing, my heart was exploding. While perusing the aisles of a Walgreens on the Las Vegas strip, a sexy red box caught my eye... the cashier took my $3, and Advil Cold and Sinus took my heart. Thank you Advil scientists! You gave me the power to finish this horrible, drug-induced update.

The last time I wrote a shitty update, I gave you all a delicious recipe for cookies or brownies or something as a symbol of my thanks. This time, I'm going to give you one of my favorite songs from one of my favorite bands, the late, the great, the O. Enjoy...

The O - A Celebration

Can't see the line, can you Russ?
part one of a several part series | Thursday, 12.02.04
I completely forgot that I had a website for a while there, so please accept my apologies and this coupon for 35 cents off your bill at your favorite Applebees restaurant. God I hate Applebees. My town is abuzz with excitement because they're replacing one of our 350 dollar stores with an Applebees, and it's going to be right across the street from the BIG K-MART, and right down the block from the GHETTO SHOP-RITE, so it will be filled to the brim with sloppy pork families and their dirt-covered children. I think my family has had about 5 cars stolen from the Shop-Rite parking lot, but luckily they were always recovered right next door at the Big K-Mart parking lot, because even cracked out car thieves can't resist their low, low prices and complimentary herpes with every purchase.

And when Santa squeezes his fat white ass down that chimney tonight, he's gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.
Now that the holidays are approaching, I'm becoming a connoisseur of horrible department stores. With money in hand, I storm through their doors with a sawed-off tucked beneath my jacket to ensure that the last Whittman's sampler box is coming home with me. "NO, JESUS CHRIST GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME" is my typical reply when a cheery red-smocked employee asks, "Is there anything I can help you with, sir?" because unless you can somehow make every person plowing their shopping carts into my back explode, then no, I'm afraid you cannot help me. When I can't find whatever retarded trinket I'm looking for within five seconds, I scour the aisles for an employee who isn't covered in spittle and hamburger helper, extract an answer from them at gunpoint, and then usually leave the store disgusted and giftless. Then I wake up in the parking lot at 3 in the morning and attempt to figure out how many of the American Psycho-esque killings were merely figments of my hap-hap-happy holiday fueled imagination.

When I was in college, I worked at a CVS for about a year and a half. During that year and a half, I survived one Christmas and quickly decided to never work retail ever again. About twelve busloads of retarded buffalo shoppers would storm through the doors at obscenely early hours to rake in the savings and battle to the death over those adorable "To: Billy, From: Santy Claus" tags. "You don't have any more tags? How will I sort my presents now, you monsters?! Christmas is ruined and next year I'm converting to Judaism because it's now apparent that Jesus could not exist in a world in which my local CVS is out of tags on Christmas eve at 11:45 at night." December 26th was even worse, because they'd mark all the holiday shit down to like 60% off, which always attracted a cavalcade of CVS shopping all-stars in search of cheap expired egg nog and Tweety Bird ornaments. Eventually, we'd mark the candy down to 90% off, even though the bags of jellied treats had transmogrified into bags of hairy jellied treats that strangle babies in the night. "Holy shit, 90% off! Back the pick-up into the store darlin'! We gon' eat like kings! A-hyuck hyuck!" I'm not sure why all of our customers spoke with a southern twang in the middle of northern Jersey, but I know that they were assholes, and they're all probably dead from wreath-shaped ju-ju poisoning.

I know I'm blowing my load by writing a Christmassy update on December 2nd, since I still have 23 more days to milk the holiday for content, but I can't help it. I am the ghost of Christmas Internets, and I have come to show you what Christmas would be like without internets. Why, a Christmas without internets would be... really very nice, actually. Instead of reading my updates, you'd all come over to my house wearing scarves and mittens and I'd tell you stories and sing songs and entertain your Christmas-loving ass in front of the fireplace. If I had a fireplace. Or an ability to tell a coherent story aloud. Or the desire to let you scary internet folks in my house. Stay tuned for my next introspective update, in which I poke fun at people who order Diet Cokes with their fast food. I mean, who are these people? See, it's funny because the fast food is laced with huge amounts of calories, and yet, the Diet Coke doesn't have any calories, but, see, the hamburger or chicken sandwich is still bad for you, and the Diet Coke does not offset its negative effects on your ass and floppy mantits! Oh, thismayhurt, what dead horse won't you beat?



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