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est. 02.27.02

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June 2007

Steve Jobs and the iFactory
nooooooooowwwww | Tuesday, 06.26.07
The breakup.
I paid extra for the built-in Predator vision camera. This will never get old.
Hey. How's it going? That's good. Yup. Me? Fine. No, nothing's wrong. I mean, I have some stuff on my mind, but it's -- well, it concerns you, but I'm not sure how you're going to take it. Don't give me that look... I've been thinking of the best way to tell you, so I'm just going to come out and say it. There's someone else. We met a few weeks ago and -- well, I think so. No, not prettier than you, just different. I'm sorry. I know. But, didn't you feel us pulling away from each other lately? Not at all? Look, it hasn't been the same since your hinge came loose, allright? There, I said it, and I don't regret it and if you're gonna freak out then I'm just gonna leave. I just think we both need some time, and I don't want to say something that I don't -- oh, don't cry. You'll always have a place in my heart, and it's not like we won't see each other anymore. No, I'm not trying to make it all better -- Fine. FINE! No, YOU'RE a piece of shit! Fuck this shit, and fuck you! Get your fuckin' hinge fixed, Titanium Powerbook G4, you're falling apart!

After five years, it's time to say goodbye to my laptop, the aforementioned Titanium Powerbook G4. We've been through a lot together: two college semesters, more games of Snood than I'd care to mention, a sweet sixteen DJ gig (shut up, I rocked that shit *fresh*), and of course, countless tmh updates. And the porn, my god the porn. It really was a great compu -- no, seriously, it was a diabolical amount of porn... this laptop has seen more insertion than a pastry bag convention. As I was saying, it really was a great computer, but like most things in life it slowly turned to shit. For instance, you couldn't touch it during complex tasks like copying three-letter words or performing single column addition because it would reach skin-melting temperatures. Oven mitts helped, but introduced a slew of other problems, such as, but not limited to: flaming oven mitts. Then the hinge on the right side snapped, exposing wires and guts and other important-looking electronic paraphernalia. Moving the screen in any way turned the screen off, and when I come home drunk out of my mind and hungry for videos of UFC cats fighting each other in the squared octagon, I'm gonna jiggle that screen like it's nobody's business. I'm also gonna eat potato skins, and I'm gonna cook 'em on my keyboard because, as I mentioned before, that fucker gets hot and I'm drunk.

So, I've decided on a brandy new MacBook Pro with all the fixins, and it's being assembled right now in Steve Jobs' factory of orange-faced midgets who are all singing and dancing and applying Neosporin to their whip wounds. If you think about it, Jobs really is the modern-day Willy Wonka. He seems like a relatively private guy, he's always coming up with wacky inventions, and he invites children to his iFactory to kill them, one by one.

Veruca Salt: But I want the latest Apple gadgets Daddy! And I want them nooooooow!
Mr. Salt: Righty-O then Jobs, how much for one of your magical mystery devices from the future there eh, guv'nah?
Steve Jobs: Oh, these products are not for sale.
Mr. Salt: Name your price Jobs-y old boy! I'll buy the whole lot of 'em!
Steve Jobs: Euthanasia will daze ya, but computers are cuter.
Mr. Salt: What?
Veruca Salt: (singing) I want an iStick and hundreds of iStones to break all your iBones... and I want them noooooooow!
Steve Jobs: No. Stop. You mustn't.
Steve Jobs: Help. Police. Murder.
Mr. Salt: Just what kind of factory are you running here Jobs?!
Steve Jobs: This is the iFactory, good sir. The "i" stands for Magic and Whimsey.
Charlie Bucket: But neither one of those wor-

I can't tell you how hard it was to stop writing dialogue for the above screenplay, Steve Jobs and the iFactory. I guess I can give you a hint: it was more than very hard. Anyway, new MacBook Pro. Right. Now that Macs are somewhat mainstream, I don't have to drown in a never-ending river of advice from you filthy PC-users, like, "I heard MAC keyboards don't have vowel keys so you should buy a Dell instead because they come with extra vowel keys in case the first set of vowel keys fall off and American Online and MineSweepers." The worst is when someone asks, "What piece of software do you use to do this random retarded task?" and my reply is always, "Well, I have a Mac, so..." and by this point they do an about-face, whip out their cell phone and report me to the ghost of Joseph McCarthy. But that's ok, they're just jealous that their shareware programs don't have cute names like We All Scream for Spreadsheets 2.1, Doris the Dignified Disk Defragger and Farts!: A Text Editor. We are so peculiar and fun! And we generally make more money than PC users so we can afford the finer things in life. Mac users are also in better shape, have more interesting friends, and have prettier (yet more powerful) sex organs than PC users because, well, we're just better at life. I'm not trying to start a flame-war or anything, I'm just stating facts, like all PC users are junkies on welfare. It's a fact, and you can't argue with facts.

It must be so quaint to be poor.

Shut up old maid, we'll make as much noise as we want!
hang owls | Tuesday, 06.19.07
Without sound, the world would be a much quieter place. No birds chirping, no children laughing, no satisfying "ca-chunk" from a three-ring hole punch. All you'd have is a voice in your head recreating all of those sounds which would be weird for me because my inner voice sounds like Rodney Dangerfield. Hearing, "I gotta tell ya, 'choip choip' go the boids," and "Hey, I'm a sheet of paper that needs to be inserted into a loose-leaf notebook and I get no respect, no re-speeeeeeeect" would be enough inspiration to throw myself off of a very tall building, or at the very least, attempt to replace my inner-Rodney with Jeff Goldlum. I don't know what it is, but when that man speaks, I listen.

I'm tackling the exciting topic of, uh, "Stuff is too loud" because of two links that I found during my e-travels, neither of which I understood aside from their headlines. The first, entitled TV Ad Sound Levels has a few graphs and a picture of a speedometer which proves that television commercials are just too durned loud. I have absolutely no interest in actually reading the article, but I'm sure they prove their point while tossing around some impressive ear vocabulary words and avoiding psychotic racist tirades such as, "Mexicans? More like Mexicunts" and "Oh my god here come the blacks, run for your lives!" TV commercials are too loud, and I'm going to assume it's because the human ear associates loudness with betterness. Hence, therefore, theretohenceforth: loud commercials are loud because you are dumb and will do as you're told as long as you're told loudly.

For instance, turn on the whispery quiet CNN Headline News and see how much of the information penetrates your soft, moist earholes. Blah blah, war in a desert, thousands killed, famous person puts famous penis in other famous person's butt blah blah whatever I can barely hear you. Then wait for a commercial... BUY THESE FABULOUS RINGTONES FOR ONLY A DOLLAR EACH OONTZ OONTZ BEEP BEEP BEEP BOOP BOOP BOOP OONTZ OONTZ ALL OF YOUR FAVORITES LIKE C+C MUSIC MANUFACTORY AND JANICE JACKSON OONTZ OONTZ OONTZ. My ears vote with their ear dollars, and the shady ringtone companies are raking in my ear dollars hand over fist due to the sheer loudness of the ads. I hope my sense of hearing lasts long enough to enjoy the majesty of my new "Designing Women (theme song from)" ringtone for years to come.

If the second article, The Loudness War, is as dangerous as it sounds, chances are pretty good that we'll all be deaf before the end of the decade. Why a decade? Well you see, it's because sound travels at, uh... ohms and -- ok, I have no idea. But apparently there's a war being fought, there's loudness involved, and I'm totally against it. Oh sure, it's fine to support the Loudness War when it's somebody else's ears getting shot up in the desert, but what about when it's your kid's ears? Poor guy. He had such a bright future ahead of him... now they've taken fat from his ass to construct horrifying man-made ass-ears and if you'll excuse the pun - he can't hear shit.

The phrase loudness war (or loudness race) refers to the music industry's tendency to record, produce and broadcast music at progressively increasing levels of loudness to create a sound that stands out from others. This phenomenon can be observed in many areas of the music industry, particularly broadcasting and albums released on CD and DVD. In the case of CDs, the war stems from a desire to create CDs that sound as loud as possible or louder than CDs from competing artists or recording labels.

I know wars - that ain't no war. The War on Drugs is a more legitimate war. Sex Wars, the pornographic Star Wars spoof that has delighted families with boners for years, is a more important war than the Loudness Wars. Warren Beatty has claimed more lives than the Loudness Wars, ok? And all for what? Because the government maaaaaaan, they want us to turn our music down maaaaaaan because because because they know that the more loudness we have the more control we have maaaaaaaaan. Please. Sometimes I wish I could get behind a completely retarded cause instead of worrying about real-life issues but what's the fun in that? Clearly my ears are getting their asses kicked on the Loudness Wars battlefield, and they're so useless that I should donate them to someone who can actually appreciate the subtle nuances of today's music.

Rhonda Byrne's "The Secret" vs. thismayhurt.com's "The Answer"
guess who wins | Tuesday, 06.12.07
Do you hate your job? Are you lonely? Sick? Tired? Hungry? Thirsty? Poor? No, like really poor? Are you still hungry? Maybe even hungrier than when I asked if you were hungry before? Do you want to make all of your wildest dreams come true, even those dreams that you can't remember in the morning but you're almost positive there were puppies involved? Do you want to fuck everyone in the world? Do you want to do something that matters?

The Secret now comes in a handy, easy-to-use applicator! I hope you're envisioning fabulous smelling armpits because you're gonna get 'em!
If you've read Rhonda Byrne's "The Secret," then you know all about the Law of Attraction, which states, "you get what you think about; your thoughts determine your destiny." This works in both the positive (I want a ham sandwich) and the negative (I want face cancer), and since it's an actual law, it's most likely been approved by your local government. Thanks to "The Secret," you no longer need to go to work in exchange for money - you just think about money and -POOF- a money angel floats down from heaven and hands you a basket full of money because you get what you think about. Isn't that awesome?! Why, with this type of power we could cure every disease in the world because who needs medicine when you can just wake up every morning and say, "I won't have diarrhea today, I'm not going to get infected with AIDS, and there's no medical proof that cancer actually exists." So you eat every meal at Taco Bell and get gallons of HIV-infected cum shot up your ass and smoke three packs a day and you're totally safe because "The Secret" makes it so. You'll only die if you think about death, so get ready to live forever while your stupid non-believer friends and family drop like fucking flies (just remember to think about being in their wills so you can roll around in piles of their fabulous death money!).

I saw "The Secret" in Barnes and Nobles, rubbed the cover like a genie bottle and instantly felt the effects. I started small; first I wished for the power of flight and thirty seconds later I crashed through the ceiling of Barnes and Nobles and flew home. Next I wished for a year's supply of Momma Celeste's personal pizzas, and my freezer literally exploded with four-cheese goodness. After wishing for a bigger freezer I made the most important wish of all - I wished that I could write a bullshit self help book that promises the world but delivers absolutely nothing...

It's been two days, and I just finished writing my newest novel - "The Answer." There are no questions, only answers in your personal paradise of wealth, fame and success! "The Answer" is based on the Law of Subtraction® - you must subtract the negativity from your life through breathing excercises, meditation and a check or money order made out to The Answer, PO Box 576, Richmond, VA, 23226. Do you have trouble sleeping at night? The answer lies in subtraction - simply subtract sleep from your life! Do you wish you could be a jazz pianist? Subtract your stupid fingers from your life and get new ones, preferrably from a real jazz pianist! Not good at subtraction? Subtract subtraction from your life and add, add, add to your personal positive aural glow that you can only obtain by accepting "The Answer" into your life.

My life was a mess before I discovered "The Answer" - I was an alcohlic, I had a colony of sexually transmitted diseases ravaging my testicles, and I weighed 780 pounds. I would spend most of my days laying around the apartment, flicking crabs from my body and drowning my sorrows in Pabst Blue Ribbon. And here, at my worst, was when The Answer came to me... subtract the alcohol, subtract the jumpin' dandruff, subtract the pounds! The Law of Subtraction® states, "subtract everything, never divide by zero, Pac Man always eats the bigger number (unless the numbers are equal, then you just put an equal sign between them)." It's foolproof because it's based on math! But don't take my word for it, let's see what some other folks who have been touched by "The Answer" have to say...

"I was suffering from a severe case of postpartum depression before I found 'The Answer.' At my lowest point I left my newborn on the front porch, strapped a sign on him that read 'FREE STUPID BABY,' locked myself in the bedroom and blasted Joy Division for three days straight. That's when a friend suggested I read 'The Answer,' and my life was changed forever. I made a new sign for my baby that read 'FREE STUPID BABY + FAMILY GUY VOLUME 2 DVD SET,' left them both on the porch and within minutes I was a free woman again! Thanks to 'The Answer,' I was able to subtract that seven pound six ounce mistake from my life forever!"
- M. Shiftlanderson

"As a millionaire, my life is perfect! The finest foods, the most beautiful woman, and enough blow to kill God. I'm living in the fast lane, and I have absolutely no complaints. I've never read 'The Answer,' but I'm sure it's great if you're poor or fat."
- O. Whitbred, III

- P. Thabadeouxington

With high quality testimonials like that, how can you afford to turn your back on "The Answer?" While writing this update, I was able to subtract stubborn grass stains, world hunger and the letter 'v' from my life, and I ha_e ne_er been happier. Our competitors promise you the world by letting you in on their little "Secret." Well here's a secret for you... those guys suck dick all day long. They think about dicks, they make dicks materialize out of thin air (thanks to their so-called "Law of Attraction"), and then they suck those dirty dicks dry. Some "Secret" huh? Those of us who follow "The Answer," on the other hand, don't suck dick... we're too busy jetsetting around the country on our ho_erboards. Yes. You heard me. Ho_erboards. We just subtracted the idea of not owning ho_erboards and now we ha_e so many ho_erboards that we're throwing them out by the truckloads (and now the trucks are ho_ering, this shit is out of control). So please, stop what you're doing, run to the store, pick up "The Answer" and prepare yourself for a thousand happiness synonyms. And a ho_erboard. If you want one.



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