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est. 02.27.02

tmh superfriends:

June 2002

Remember when Number Johnny 5 was beat up by those jewel thieves?
That's kinda how this is. | Friday, 06.28.02

Future techno crime update.
I know the timestap says 2002, but it's really 2978. | Sunday, 06.23.02
Yesterday was very bizarre. I was given dueling glimpses of crime prevention... in the future! Yes, the future, with its flying cars and big screen tv's and Marty McFly buying Gray's Sports Almanac to get his mother breast implants in 1985. THE FUTURE! My first encounter with future crime prevention
Dead or alive, you're coming with me. Punk. Remember to change my filter.
came in the from of Robocop II, the seven and a half hour FX Channel version (I think there was a glitch in FX's programming, because for some reason they weren't showing the X-Files or M*A*S*H*). Luckily, FX is as good a channel as Robocop II is a movie, so it all evened out.

You see, the movie Robocop got its title from the main character, whose name also happens to be Robocop. However, he's about as cop-like as an air conditioner wearing a badge. Sure, the air conditioner looks like a cop, what with its badge and all, but it doesn't fight crime. It can barely drive a car. Anyway, for a good two thirds of the movie, Robocop is either dismembered, laying on a robo-stretcher, eating Wendy's or acting like a fairy, complete with magic wand and pretty panties. In all honesty, Robocop sucks. A bunch of little kids kick his ass and tag up on his face, and all Robocop can do is play Solitaire in his stupid "digital space disco future space helmet."

TOM CRUISE is... Flannel Cop.
But underneath all the "wacked out" and "retarded" psychoticness of Robocop II, lies a message: Robocops are shitty cops. Robots are good at two things, making toast and making french toast. Cops are good at two things, eating toast and eating french toast. I rest my case, although I'm pretty sure I never had a case to begin with.

My second fucked up future cop thing was Steven Spielberg's Kubrick wannabe techno thriller Minority Report. In the year 2054, three crack babies take milk baths and etch murderers into wooden balls. Tom Cruise can read the wooden balls and wave his hands in front of his "future techno computer" and capture the murderers before they murder anyone. But since Tom Cruise takes "future techno drugs," some old guy shoots people in their faces and necks and the Gap sells you stuff based on the color of your eyes. The movie was very easy to follow, especially when the old woman's techno plants attack Tom Cruise, then he has his eyes ripped out of his head, but he has to keep the techno bandage over the holes for 12 hours or he'll go blind, then some robot techno spiders lift off the bandage after 6 hours, and he doesn't go blind.

But underneath all the "Boba Fett jet packs" and "Lexus factories of the future" found in Minority Report, lies a message: Tom Cruise is a shitty cop. He can't even find his dead son for crying out loud. I mean, god Tom, show me some money. You know? Show me your dead kid or something. Oh wait, you can't. Do you want to know why? Because you're a shitty future techno cop!

Mike Piazza and Sam Champion have sex in the butt.
And they loooooove Seventh Heaven. | Wednesday, 06.19.02
Every once in a while, a piece of entertainment will grab you by both ears and slam your head into the ground, douse you in gasoline and poke you with sticks. Today, for me, that piece of entertainment was a very special episode of the WB's very special "Seventh Heaven." As I sat on the floor at Rachel's house, snickering under my breath, she uttered the famous question, "You're going to write an update about this, aren't you?"

You bet your sweet, sweet ass I am, sister. I cannot understand how one television show can be so gay. It kind of reminds me of "The Wonder Years," but only the episodes in which Winnie Cooper exists. You see, for some reason, Kevin Arnold's love interest Winnie Cooper exists on another plane of reality. Sometimes she was the only broad on the market, but other times, Kevin Arnold would be attracted to some other 1960's shkank that knew how to French. Or was French. Anyway, the point of this short diversion lies in the fact that Kevin was a little fruitcake around Winnie Cooper, and a real... heh heh... SAVAGE around the other women. SAVAGE! Get it! Because his name... is.. Fred... Savage... ahem.

"Seventh Heaven" is chock full of those Winnie Cooper "Oh, Kevin, how could you?" moments. If you're not familiar with the backstory of "Seventh Heaven," allow me to make one up for you. You see, there's this family, right? And their last names are probably either Seven or Heaven. The father (Mr. Seven [or Heaven]) is a clergyman, so basically he's an unemployed junkie on the lookout for sweet boy ass. His wife is unaware of his N.A.M.B.L.A. membership, plus she works a 9 to 5 job as a fundraiser for retarded kids. They have 800 children, all of which have problems. Big problems. Like, this one time, the youngest girl found a penny in the backyard, and she wasn't sure if she should give it to her father to help him renew his N.A.M.B.L.A. membership, or her mother to help retarded seabass. In the end she crucifies herself for finding the penny in the first place. It was pretty funny, especially when the dog ate the hamburgers at the barbecue. Or when Uncle Joey did his Bullwinkle impression.

During the episode that Rachel and I had the pleasure of viewing today, the mother and the youngest daughter (the one who crucifed herself) got lost in a museum and the youngest son made a diorama out of doll heads. Oh, and the oldest daughter became pregnant, contracted AIDS, was bitten by a snake, became Jewish, was sent to a gas chamber, ran for mayor and won the biggest basketball game of her life. The father pouted a lot, especially when DJ wanted her own room but didn't want to give her Pillow Person to Stefanie. But then Richie Cunningham came over and told everyone that Pinkie Tuscadero survived the crash after all.

Although I didn't see how the dramatic masterpiece ended, I'm sure all problems were solved, a big ol' hug was shared by all, the family looked at each other, sighed and said, "If this is Seventh Heaven, I can't wait to die! Ha ha ha ha ha!" Gay. Richard Simmons' enema gay. Greenwich Village Dildo Store gay. I'm talkin' gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Just... god... can't you make your show a little less gay? Did you even try? C'mon, just try. Ok? And yes, I agree with Rachel, it's nice to watch a show that's so wholesome and... (sigh) peaceful... but shit... I lost a testicle during the first twenty minutes. So, if you'll excuse me, I have some tools to bang together.

It doesn't matter if it is good. It only matters if it rocks.
Random stuff that rocks your fucking socks off. | Tuesday, 06.11.02
Summer is boring. But here's some stuff that has been keeping me occupied into the wee hours...

Tenacious D. Without a doubt, the funniest album I've heard in quite some time. Jack Black has been everywhere lately (host of MTV Movie Awards, Orange County) but I knew that I recognized him from somewhere else. Then it clicked: he was the dreaded up guy in I Still Know What You Did Last Summer that I wanted to die die die. But anyway, yeah, Tenacious D is brilliant. Funny-ass skits and acoustic rock power.
Tenacious D

The Simpsons Road Rage. Sure it's just Crazy Taxi with Simpsons characters, and yes it received some lackluster reviews, but in the long line of horrible Simpson games, Road Rage is a nice deviation. I played Bart vs. the Space Mutants for a full year, and I heard that reaching the second level made Jesus appear in your room with fistfulls of cash and beer. The third level would strip you of your virginity. But alas, the NES had no remorse for pre-pubescent tantrums, and simply pressing Start would kill Bart one thousand times. The equally horrible sequal, Bart vs. the World, was... equally horrible. But I'd rank Road Rage up there with the Simpsons arcade game, which will always remain the pinnacle of arcade achievement. Blowing up that Krusty balloon by jamming on the buttons? Priceless.
The Simsons Road Rage

Figuring out what the hell CD this is. Rachel found this in her car, yet neither of us know where it came from, why it was there, or whose skull it is. It's some punk cd, but it seems to have the power to materialize on its own. If you have any idea what this is, or if you sing in the band yourself, lemme know.

And finally... Pommes Frites. Did you know that there is a famous stand in New York City that sells nothing but Belgian Fries? I know! Can you believe it? Fries from Belgium! Do you know what they taste like? FUCKING FRIES FROM FRANCE! But in Belgium, ketchup is not allowed, so they are forced to make bizarre condiments from other dimensions. Hawaiian Pineapple Mustard. Dill Mango Mayo. Hershey Pencil-Shavings Nut Butter. Pull up a splintery stool in some guy's basement and eat your fucking fries, but bring your own ketchup in a bottle labeled "Bologna Kool-Aid Neosporin Mayo." I give it an 8/10.
Pommes Frites

There's always lots of fun stuff to do...
... like relax and design a new tattoo. -- sublime | Friday, 06.07.02
[[Dear members of my family who read this page: Under no circumstances are you aloud to repeat what you've read here to those who live in the same house as me (i.e. mom and dad). You've witnessed their insanity firsthand for even longer than I have, and I don't feel like listening to them bitch any more than you do. So, again, let's use their inability to operate a computer to my advantage. Thank you very much. Enjoy the update!
-- Love, your loving brother and brother-in-law.]]

Rachel and I sat down in the extremely comfy leather couch to fill out the paperwork, and as I dotted the final t's and crossed the last i's, everything vital to my existence plummeted to the floor. It was kind of the same feeling I had when I was about to get my tongue pierced, when the nice bikers accepted me into their gang and told me not to eat any pussy for a few weeks. But this time, there were no bikers, and I was the pussy, uneaten and wet... from SWEAT you pervert! Christ.

Anyway, I walked into the inner sanctum, filled to the brim with Angelina Jolie posters and unopened "Retro Puppetmaster" toys. "Casino" was playing on his laptop, but I'll get to that later. Before I knew it, I was laying down on the Frederick Douglas slave cot as he prepared his tools. He said something along the lines of "Here we go..." and at first, it felt kind of nice. Just as he had explained, it felt like a light sunburn. But after a few seconds, he was playing Gran Turismo with the foot pedal. The shit stung for like 6 seconds at a time. Then he'd stop, refill, and go for another six seconds. The light sunburn soon became a Hell sandwich with extra... things that are hot.

I had one arm over my shoulder, and I can picture my overly-chewed nails grinding into Rachel's well-kept hand. For a while I was doing this weird circular motion thing, where I'd move my thumb over one of her knuckles in this crazy endless circle. I wasn't really thinking about anything, the endorphins pretty much took over everything by that point. I mentioned "Casino" before for a reason: it was up to the part where some guy gets his hand smacked with a hammer. And for that second, it really didn't hurt that bad anymore. I mean, I could relate to the guy, but I don't think he paid $120 for the old Italian-hammer-handshake.

A couple minutes later I hear, "All right, you're done dude." He quickly answered his ringing cell phone while I checked out his work. Although it is my first, I'd like to think that he did a damned good job, and I wasn't that much of a whiny girl. I'd like to give mad shout outs to this place, which is conveniently located right next to this place, where you can be one of these.

Let's see, $6.75 an hour... 9 hours a week...
... by the time I pay for parking, it all evens out. | Tuesday, 06.04.02
Well here I am, back in a cubicle where I belong. Unlike my previous cubicle, this one has a swivel chair, paperclips, and a coat hanger! Not to mention the old-ass Macintosh Performa hooked up to a broken Dell monitor sitting next to the equally old-ass Dell PC with which I am currently writing this update. I'd love to see that "Dude, you're getting a Dell" kid attempt to sell me this piece of shit.

Dell guy: Dude, it's got like a 13" monitor, a coffee stained keyboard and a brand new Compaq mousepad.
Me: But, I thought you worked for Dell.
Dell guy: Dude, you're getting a Compaq mousepad.
Me: Do I have to?

Now I know what you're thinking. "Gee, it must be nice to sit at work for three hours updating your website and not helping anyone with their computer related inquiries." To which I would say, fuck you. No one has called or even entered the office in about an hour. I find that answering the phone by saying, "What the hell do you want?" ensures that I won't get repeat business, and I have plenty of Compaq mousepads to launch at the "walk-ins." Oh dear god the "walk-ins."

Walk-in: I don't know my social security number, I've forgotten my name, and I'm pretty sure I don't even go to this college. Can I have an account?
Me: Um... yes?
Walk-in: Oh, and I need to urinate in this plant.
Me: All right.

In other non-cubicle related news... oh wait, excuse me... god I hate Windows. Why is realplayer launching? Why is that little thing flashing? No, I don't want to download the newest edition of realplayer. Yes, I'm sure. Can you put some more icons on my desktop please? Hold on, I'll drag them to the Trash Ca-- I mean, the Recycle Bin. What the-- that little thing is still FUCKING FLASHING! I'm going to post this update and then kick the everloving piss out of this computer on 3. 1... 2...



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