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Congratulations class of 2004! It's that time of year again, when some of you will be graduating from high school, college or a clown-themed university where you can earn a bachelor's degree in riding an elephant and minor in scarring children for life. Soon you'll be standing in front of your peers, accepting your diploma with one hand and fingering your concealed glock with the other, waiting for that perfect moment to shoot up the faculty and then take your own life before the cops show up. Stand proud, young graduate! You can now safely forget the multiplication tables.
|Get a job or you don't eat here anymore.|
A job? What am I nuts? | Wednesday, 05.26.04
Your diploma's hanging on the wall, your old notebooks are safely stowed in the nearest trash receptacle, and your command of the English language is getting more ungooder by the minute. Now's the time to figure out what you want to do with the rest of your life, and since your guidance counselor was most likely a fucking gym teacher at some point in his life, maybe you should look elsewhere for guidance. You could ask your father for advice, but he'll probably say something about going 17 rounds with you on the front lawn and accuse you of thinking you're "smarter than your old man with all your fancy book learnin' and pencils and whatnot." You could ask your friends for advice, but now that you're out of school, they're all dead to you. Don't worry, you'll never see them ever again.
|Google image search wins again.|
It seems no one can help you... except for me. That's right, I, John Lacki, self-proclaimed internet celebrity and all-around terrific niceguy, will guide you on your path to post-schooling independence. I must warn you, however, that my hatred for higher education is only exceeded by my hatred for Nazis, so if you follow my advice, you'll never get any smarter than you are right now. Let that sink into your crusty, stagnant brain chunks, and then read on my slow-witted friend...
High School Graduates: Chances are you've already applied to a number of colleges, and you're waiting to receive your acceptance letters so your mom can hang them on the fridge and give you hugs and kisses and a stuffed animal wearing a graduation cap. My advice to you? Cut off ties with your family and move in to a tweaker pad on the other side of town. Despite what you've heard, college is for sissies and brainiacs, so you want to make sure you never receive those acceptance letters. If your parents come snooping around your tweaker pad to show you your acceptance letters, tell your new friend Junkie Pete to "have a word with our visitors," which is tweaker slang for "kill everyone that isn't you." You'll be thanking me when your old friends are stressing about "final exams" and "unprotected sex with teacher's assistants" and "dying for fifteen minutes after chugging a 17 gallon drum of jager." Oh wait, you need a job now, don't you? Let me just pull something up on my computer... ok... right... let's see, high school graduate... no extracurricular activities... ah, here it is. Your new job will be HEAD DESIGNER OF A SPACE-AGE OPERATING SYSTEM. Get crackin' junkie, space-age operating systems don't code themselves.
College Graduates: Don't even think about getting your master's degree. Rachel's going to graduate school now... do you know the last time I saw her? September. Actually, that's a lie, I saw her roaming the streets about a week ago, mumbling something about not sleeping for 8 months and she was dragging a large garbage bag full of textbooks and highlighters. I ran up to her to give her a hug since I haven't seen or heard from her in almost a year... she stared at me for a few seconds, then she dug into her garbage bag, pulled out a highlighter and highlighted my eyebrows. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SHE THOUGHT MY EYEBROWS WERE IMPORTANT PIECES OF INFORMATION. "Rachel, what-- what's gotten in to you?" I asked. She replied with a 3 hour oral presentation on the work of Ivan Petrovich Pavlov, the winner of the 1904 Nobel Prize in Medicine, complete with handouts and a remarkably well-done PowerPoint presentation. While her dedication is astounding, I only hope that I'll get to spend some time with her once she graduates. If you or someone you love decides to apply to graduate school, please know that you'd have more fun running face-first into a brick wall for the rest of your life, and you'd be the most talented face-first brick-runner in your field. Try and get your master's degree in that.
Higher Education: OK, we get it! You're smart. Quit showing off your massive cranium, Einstein, because no one even cares. Does your PhD get you free rentals at Blockbuster? Do you get more ketchup and napkins from the White Castle drive-thru if you flash your PhD card (if you even get a card, and I'm pretty sure you don't)? Can you perform a tracheotomy with a Slurpee straw? I didn't think so, doctor. Yeah, you liked that didn't you, making others call you doctor? Here, check this out: Dr. J. Lacki. I can do the same thing, and it cost me about $750,000 less than you. Now who's the genius, and who's the lowly technical writer/webmaster with the heart of gold?
PRAY FOR AN END TO ABORTION
|PRAY FOR AN END TO ABORTION|
mentalshed.com update | Thursday, 05.20.04
I had a religious experience this morning. Maybe "experience" is too broad a term... I had an 80 mile per hour head-on religious catastrophe this morning, and I also managed to prove that there may or may not be a god. All in all, I'd say it was a productive morning, and I hope to have my recipe for AIDS-B-GONE® ready by noon.
Route 280, Harrison, New Jersey, 7:45 a.m. Like most Americans, I am easily influenced by advertising. My brain is fully programmed to recognize which light beer will make me the life of the party and which brand of dog food will give my coat a healthy shine. The car ahead of me had a homemade sign taped to the back window that read, PRAY FOR AN END TO ABORTION in a strikingly bold Arial, Helvetica, Sans-Serif font. Although not as moving as a "Honk if you enjoy sports" or "Flash your high beams if your favorite color is yellow" bumper sticker, the PRAY FOR AN END TO ABORTION fansign spoke to me in a way that I either cannot explain or don't feel like writing...
read the rest (click "front page") // peep the archives
Let's talk about gasoline prices. I, for one, enjoy paying $2.10 a gallon, because it helps me get rid of those pesky 20 dollar bills that keep accumulating in my wallet. In one quick trip to the local gas pump, I can easily expunge $35 from my wallet, which is great because that's less money that I have to spend on sugary treats and my blood pressure medication. Why are the gas prices so high? Nobody knows. Sure, some people claim there's a war going on, but I think it's time we start growing our own gasoline right here in the United States of America. No, I don't think gasoline grows on trees, but I'm almost positive that it grows in shrubs.
|I'm so hungry I could eat a sandwich from a gas station.|
$2.02 // $2.05 // $2.12 | Tuesday, 05.18.04
I drive an old beater car, a '93 Nissan Maxima to be precise. The driver-side window only works when you press the button 7,000 times and call it a cocksucker, the antenna won't retract anymore, but it tries and tries and makes this clunking/honking sound like a scary robot from the future, and also, I'm pretty sure the airbags are filled with forks and other assorted flak. Oh, I almost forgot, music that features a rhythm section is not allowed in my car, because, to quote Big Boi, the bass sounds like "two midgets in the backseat wrasslin'" and the irony of that statement is delicious because I can't even play Outkast in my car without the bass sounding like this: RUMBLE BLARG RUMBLE BLARG. And yet, despite all of my cars retarded shortcomings, I still have to feed it Ultra Mondo Premium ++ gasoline. Actually, have to is not entirely true... I'm afraid not to. See, the car's previous owner seemed to think that the car needed Ultra Mondo Premium ++, and I'm afraid that if I give it anything else, the car will explode. Look, I never took autoshop in high school, ok? I wrote poems about lightening bugs and moonbeams and spent most of my senior year hiding in my locker. But I had a great time in high school, thanks for bringing it up.
|This is where gas comes from. Apparently it contains lead. Lots of lead. Also, it's expensive now. Take the fucking bus.|
Yesterday I asked for "$20 worth of the premium petrol, please, thank you so very much, good sir." Do you know how much premium petrol I got for $20? Um... about... 9.43 gallons. That's not a lot. Please, my car pours 9.43 gallons of gasoline over its cereal every morning; that shit will last me about five minutes on the road. Maybe two if I turn on the A/C. Then, once again, I'll be forced to find the nearest rest stop, blow a trucker for gas money and steal his wallet when he's not looking. I'm not proud of it, but dammit... these installation documents aren't going to write themselves! But boy howdy, if they did, I'd sodomize a substantially smaller amount of truckers every year.
Did you know that New Jersey is one of the few states where you're not allowed to pump your own gas? "Why, because you're too dumb to use a gas pump because you're from New Jersey and you're a bunch of stupid dummies and LOL @ our great nation's armpit?" No, you fucking cuntlobster, we just don't want to. And for the record, when I'm forced to "fill 'er up" in some other state, I'm capable of mastering the fine art of gas pumpery... I just like to douse myself, my vehicle, and the other gas patrons in gasoline before I manage to get the gas into the tank. That's just how we do it in Jersey because we fuckin' crazy, yo. I'm proud to live in a state where someone else is forced to pump my gas when it's 120 degrees out, and I'm sorry I had to spell out the word "degrees" there, but I'm too lazy to figure out how to make the little "degrees" symbol.
This is completely unrelated to anything, but I remember when the gas station two doors down from my house exploded. This must have been a few months before the aluminum factory blew up on the other side of town (lying children in the schoolyard claimed that after the explosion, aluminum baseball bats fell from the heavens... luckily, no one was injured). I must have been around 3 or 4 when the gas station decided to burst into flames, but it was wonderful watching the nice man who owned the gas station attempt to extinguish his flaming skin by running around in circles and screaming. Well, not so much wonderful as completely mind-numbingly frightening. Luckily, my next door neighbor gave me a shot of whiskey and a handful of Pringles to make me stop shaking in terror. That night changed my life forever... it was the first time I ever had a Pringle.
My friend was telling me about this email he received that was attempting to organize a nationwide "DON'T BUY GAS" day. Surely this would show the evil pigheaded gas corporations that we are sick and tired of paying these astronomical gas fees! Just think... dozens upon two dozens of people not buying gas for a whole day... BECAUSE THEY BOUGHT GAS THE DAY BEFORE OR WILL BUY GAS THE DAY AFTER, THEREBY DEFEATING THE WHOLE PURPOSE OF YOUR WELL-CRAFTED INTERNET RUSE. "Oh shit, I can't buy gas tomorrow? I better buy some right now! Haha! We've won! Take that capitalism!" Guess what? The only way you're going to show the world that you're pissed off about gasoline prices is to a) ride your rollerskates to work (unless they're gas-powered) or b) murder all the gas station attendants in your town. I've yet to see a problem that rollerskates and homicide couldn't effectively solve.
I'm going to build a PC, and I need your help! Below you'll find the parts I've picked out so far from Newegg.com. If you see anything that looks blatantly stupid (ie: stuff that doesn't fit together, stuff that is too expensive) please let me know, and also give me some other pointers that you think a born and raised Mac user would need to know.
|ATTN: Greasy Ham Monster Nerdgeeks|
my journey to the darkside | Saturday, 05.15.04
I'm primarily interested in games. I'd like to be able to play Half Life 2 and Doom 3 on it, but I know it's difficult to predict what kind of specs imaginary games of the future will require. But an ATI Radeon 9800Pro should be able to handle newer stuff, right?
The goal is to keep this puppy between $1,000 and $1,200! This is including the monitor, and it needs to be both Mac and PC compatible. I haven't picked out a case or fans yet, so if you have any suggestions, please let me know. The less my computer sounds like an airplane taking off, the better. Also, I don't want a case that lights up or has a ricer-looking window on the side, because they usually look ri-goddamn-diculous. Thanks in advance!
AMD Athlon 64 3000+, 512 kb l2 cache 64-bit processor - retail
ABIT "KV8" K8T800 Chipset Motherboard for AMD Athlon64 CPU -RETAIL
Crucial 184 Pin 512MB DDR PC-3200 - OEM
ATI RADEON 9800PRO Video Card, 128MB DDR, 256-bit, DVI/TV-Out, 8X AGP -RETAIL
Lite-On Black 8X DVD+/-RW Drive, Model SOHW-812S, OEM
Seagate 160GB 7200RPM IDE Hard Drive, Model ST3160023A, OEM
ViewSonic E70f 17" PerfectFlat CRT Monitor –RETAIL
Total (not including a case): $985
|Lady Luck's with me, the dice stay hot...|
Got coke up my nose to dry away the snot. | Tuesday, 05.11.04
Suddenly, everything's all about Vegas. Every corny sitcom had a "Vegas" episode this season, filled with hilarious, cutting-edge dialogue such as, "Well, it looks like we're in Las Vegas!" and "I wonder what type of shenanijinks we'll encounter during our trip to fabulous Las Vegas?!" Then the main character develops a drinking and/or gambling problem, the wacky next door neighbor falls down a lot, and David Copperfield makes them all disappear. Even intelligent Party of Melrose, 90210-style shows are cashing in on the Las Vegas cash cow of cash and prizes, as seen on last week's episode of The O.C., wherein all the sexy boys go to Vegas and gamble in slow motion, and all the sexy girls throw each other in the pool and punch each other in slow motion. And then David Copperfield makes them all disappear in slow motion. And then robust chunks of vomit and mustard rise up the back of my throat in slow motion, and I swallow them back down in slow motion to avoid embarrassing myself.
Our trip to Vegas is only a few weeks away, so I've started practicing. Look, I've seen Casino, ok? The last thing I need is to be taken into the back room to be worked over by a bunch of linguini-loving paisanos for scratching my nose the wrong way at the blackjack table. Some Joe Pesci-looking motherfucker is gonna whack me across the back of the head with a sock full of quarters for looking at his broad the wrong way if I'm not careful, and I refuse to be made a fool of by anyone under 4 foot 9.
How does one begin to prepare themselves for what promises to be "the most rawking vacation experience since that trip to the Burger King in Hohokus, New Jersey three years ago?" First, you must develop a swagger. A swagger that says to the world, "I know it's eleven o'clock in the morning, but I need this Rum and Coke... and I pay your salary buddy soyoubetterjust... did I ever -hic- tell you that you are the best most -hic- wonderful best bartender in the world?" Actually, scratch that swagger... you want a swagger that says, "Gee officer, I don't know why I'm digging this hooker-sized hole in the middle of the desert." That's the swagger I'm working on, and so far, it requires three legs and a parrot, but it's coming along quite nicely, thanks for asking.
Now that you've got your swagger down pat, it's time to work on your poker face. Even if you're like me, and you don't understand the rules of poker, and everyone invites you over to play poker so that they can take your money and watch you choke on a cigar, you poker face is still moy importante, as they say in France. Say you're walking down the strip with your lady-friend, and a hooker approaches you. And not one of them classy hookers with the pants and such, I'm talking a pre-Disneyfied Vegas hooker. Let's see how the situation plays out without the use of your poker face...
STD-filled hooker: Hey there potential sexual client. How would you like to exchange money for filthy intercourse? Your girlfriend can watch.
You: That sounds splendid! Meet me in my hotel room at 3:00 a.m., my girlfriend should be asleep by then... right honey?
Your girlfriend: Our vacation is ruined! I hope you're happy!
You: God, can I do anything on this trip?
Now let's see what happens when you activate the poker face...
STD-filled hooker: Hey there potential sexual client. How would you like to exchange money for filthy intercourse? Your girlfriend can watch, and I think you'd enjoy my rotten AIDS crotch.
You: (activates the poker face) No thank you.
Your girlfriend: Oh darling, this is the best vacation ever. The way you ignore filthy STD-filled hookers just drives me wild.
Now you've got the swagger, you've got the poker face, now for the coup de grace... not looking like an asshole. Las Vegas is an over-the-top place bursting with excitement and flashing lights majesty. Therefore, it's very easy to make simple mistakes, such as winning a trillion dollars and screaming at the top of your lungs, "Oh my goodness, I've just won a trillion dollars from this slot machine! Let me just load up this oversized novelty gambling bucket and then make a quick stop to the restroom." Guaranteed, you will be a trillion dollars poorer before leaving the restroom thanks to the gypsies that roam the streets and toilet facilites of Las Vegas. A small gypsie boy will approach you and say something sharp like, "May I see your trillion dollar winnings? I've never seen real money before..." And then before you know it, you're unconscious and handcuffed to a urinal. Oh, and the little bastard stole your trillion dollar bucket of coins and your bus pass, too. So what have we learned from this imaginary situation? If you win anything during your stay in a casino, from a huge payout of $.35 from the nickel slots to a coupon for $5 off a buffet at the Ponderosa Steakhouse, just pocket that shit and run till you hit the Atlantic.
Thanks to your swagger, your poker face and your ability to not look like an asshole, you're ready for a fun and exciting week in Las Vegas, the city where all your dreams come true. Hopefully your dreams include losing all your money and getting so drunk that you can hold a twelve hour conversation with a parking meter and his wife. Viva Las Vegas!
I love imagining the faces of the telemarketers that I hang up on. Oh sure, they'll pretend like they don't care as they enter "the fucker called me a 'cuntshit' and hung up on me" into their decrepit computer terminal, but I know deep down that Nancy calling from The Star Ledger dies a little inside when I politely tell her to go fuck herself without even saying a word. Why on earth did I sign up for that Do Not Call registery thing? Sure, I'm a busy man with my hands in a lot of pies, but I'm never too busy to make someone else question their talents as a phone solicitor.
|Hi, my name is Lacki, I'm calling from thismayhurt.com. How are you this evening?|
DIE DIE DIE | Monday, 05.03.04
Now, already, I know it's a telemarketer, because there's that one second delay as the telemarketer regroups after snorting a line off the receiver.
Caller: Hello Mr. Lacki, my name is --
I don't have many skills, but my ability to press the "END THIS CALL NOW" button on my phone is truly a sight to behold. I can only hope that my "no bullshit" toughguyness will one day turn a miserable phone solicitor back to the light side of the force...
Telemarketer #1: Hello Mr. Lacki, my name is -- FUCK, that sneaky bastard hung up on me again!
Telemarketer #2: What's wrong, Telemarketer #1?
Telemarketer #1: It's that John Lacki guy... it's almost like he doesn't want to save 70% off the cover price of Newsweek magazine or something.
Telemarketer #2: That's impossible... everyone wants to save 70% off the cover price of Newsweek magazine... that's a savings of nearly $150 every year!
Telemarketer #1: I know! I just can't get through to him. Maybe... no.
Telemarketer #2: What is it?
Telemarketer #1: Oh... nothing. I was just thinking maybe there's a more efficient way of selling these magazine subscriptions.
Telemarketer #2: Wait a second... more efficient? What's more efficient than calling someone on the telephone while they're eating dinner? They don't even have to leave their house, and they'll also receive a free Newsweek travel thermos in six to eight weeks!
Telemarketer #1: That's all well and good, but how many magazines subscriptions have you sold during your 25 years at HarassCo?
Telemarketer #2: Well... uh... around... 7? But those seven customers couldn't be happier with their lifetime subscriptions to Newsweek magazine, and their travel thermoses are due to arrive any day now.
Telemarketer #1: That's it! I'm never going to hock another subscription to Newsweek magazine for as long as I live! I'm going back to school, and then I'm going to find the job of my dreams...
Telemarketer #2: And what dream is that?
Telemarketer #1: To market cigarettes to minors with the aid of an animated rabbit.
Telemarketer #2: Godspeed, Telemarketer #1. Say, would you be interested in a subscription to Newsweek magazine? You'll be saving nearly 70% off--
Telemarketer #1: Fuck you, Earl.
A man can dream can't he?
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