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July 2002

Thailand is in the news, and it's not related to M. Bison
Well, it sort of is, but whatever. | Wednesday, 07.31.02
The latest in insect-erradicating technology.
"A Thai computer programmer behind a wildly popular anti-mosquito software package has upgraded his program to also repel cockroaches and rats, the English language Nation newspaper reports" (cnn.com) Basically, some nutty guy from Thailand (most likely Street Fighter's Sagat) made this program that plays a high-pitched frequency through your computer speakers that repels mosquitoes, rats and mosquitoes riding rats.

Since I was raised in Thailand (well, Thailand, NJ) I was able to get a copy of the software, and I have to say that it's been working fairly well so far. Before I couldn't even see my hand in front of me on account of all the disease-carrying insects swarming about my room, but now I've managed to limit them to my closet. Plus, I think my malaria's going away. One minor side effect, and I mean minor, is the slight bleeding from my ears nose and throat after using my computer for more than 15 minutes, but still... NO BUGS! (except in the closet).

But, after getting my Thailandese computer science G.E.D. through the mail, I was able to tweak Sagat's program to be a bit more effective. Now instead of repelling insects, it kills them DEAD with a mixture of advanced laser technology, soundwaves and seven uzis taped to a series of cinder blocks. Never again will you be bothered by the buzzing of an insect or small child pretending to be an insect. Mosquitoes are just as deadly here in the Americas as they are in my homeland, and I think that my program bugandbabykiller.exe is just what we, as a country, need. And for those tree-huggers that actually love and care for their children, I'll offer a patch in a few months to remove the baby-killing option. Damned tree huggers with your "save the whales" and "save the eagles" and "save the babies" and I don't even know anymore.

check out the JUNK DRAWER for the love of god.

 
40 oz.
| Monday, 07.29.02
At work, and my laptop has become a $3,000 discman (well, an mp3 player anyway). Somehow, your retarded computer problems don't bother me as much while Sublime is playing. And will you (the collective faculty and student body) please stop using floppies!? If I had a nickel for every "my 700 year old floppy isn't working" asshole that I had to deal with, I'd have about fifteen cents... fifteen well-earned cents.

 
Hahahahaha... you're fat.
Beanbag-chair man eats a lot, wants money for it. | Thursday, 07.25.02
Cookie Puss does not stand a chance.
Photo courtesy of FCIPH.com
Oh Jesus Christ. "A New York City lawyer has filed suit against the four big fast-food corporations [McDonald's, Burger King, Wendy's and KFC] saying their fatty foods are responsible for his client’s obesity and related health problems" (FoxNews.com).

In a press conference this afternoon, Ronald McDonald replied to these allegations by saying, "Although we are terribly saddened by the fatty events facing your client, we are currently accepting resumes for the starring role in Grimace: The Musical starring everyone's favorite purple slop-of-shit, Grimace, the mascot for milk shakes. If your client is willing to paint himself purple, we can pay him in McRib sandwiches and Pork McFlurrys."

I have no remorse for that fat fuck. Fuck you. About two months ago I ate fast food all the time, like twice a day. Dunkin Donuts for breakfast, a sensible lunch and a triple-cheeseburger from Burger King for dinner. I hit my peak at a little over 200 pounds and I became so disgusted with myself that I didn't even want to look at a scale anymore. So guess what I did... you'll never believe this. I STOPPED EATING! You can't sue a company for providing a service that you abuse, for christ's sake! I mean, did I sue Carvel for making me eat Cookie Puss for dinner every night for a month? Oh wait... I did. But did I win? Not in this state, but I did eat a whole Fudgy the Whale in Boston once, so here's hoping.

The point of this expletive laiden diatribe is to put down the obese because I hate them. Have you ever met a nice fat person? Or at least one that wasn't being nice to you only for the sole person of eating you while you sleep? Me neither. What would this guy do if he won a huge chunk of change from four trillionaire companies... buy a rowing machine? Maybe, if the rowing machine was made out of bacon, and his sweat tasted like chocolate milk. The rolly-polly bastard would just buy more food, then he would sue the sidewalk that crumbled under his weight.

It's marginally (not margarine, you slovenly S.O.B.) fine to be overweight, just don't try to make money off it, unless you're Chris Farley, John Candy or Takeru Kobayashi, the Japanese guy that ate 50 hot dogs. Wait, he wasn't fat. But still, 50 hot dogs is hot dogs, and he deserves to make all the money in the world. He freakin' dumps the buns in water and shoves them in his mouth for christ's sake.

The End.

 
'Cause everyone... needs... a mother... FUCKER!
System of a Down :: live @ Jones' Beach | Tuesday, 07.23.02
Jones Beach has always been this weird spector of a venue in the back of my head, filled with wonderment, whimsey and other nouns beginning with the letter "w." So when I heard that System of a Down would be playing there, I kind of filed the information in the back of my mind, knowing with utmost certainty that Jones Beach was on some distant planet.

Me: Hey babe, I think System is playing at Jones Beach. I'd ask you if you'd like to go, but I know with utmost certainty that Jones Beach is on some distant planet.
Rachel: John, it's like, 45 minutes away from your house.
Me: Jones Beach? Like... the Jones Beach? No, I'm pretty sure it's on some fucking moon somehwere.
Rachel: Why am I still going out with you?

So I bought the tickets, and finally, July 21st rolled around. Now, those of you on the East side have heard the horrors of the dreaded "Long Island Expressway" traffic from people who either don't drive or don't know where Long Island is. "Oh god and baby Jesus, you're driving to Long Island on a Sunday? Good luck with all that traffic. Haw haw haw." So, scared shitless of imaginary rubbernecking, Rachel and I left her house at 1:30. The concert starts at 7:00. But that's ok! "Fuckin' killer traffic, man."

And like some Irish proverb written on a bright green doormat, the roads rose up to meet us. No, seriously, every inch of road on the way to Long Island was seperated from the earth due to large amounts of construction and other random bumpiness. And yes, there was some traffic. For ten whole minutes. The bumper-to-bumper chaos that I pictured in my brain amounted to a swiftly moving line at a McDonald's drive-thru. Why do I listen to random traffic warners? "There's going to be traffic, John." "Don't forget to wear your seatbelt, John." "You need to turn off the parking brake to make the burning smell go away, John."

Nevertheless, we got there early and the once imaginary Jones Beach was located next to, of all things, a fucking beach! I thought it was just a clever coincidence, but no, there actually is a beach next to the Jones Beach Theater. And what a beach! Rachel and I, the two most clothed and painfully untanned motherfuckers to ever set foot on sand, both realized that we are not beach folk. I cry when my hands feel gritty, and half of Rachel's family was eradicated by mutated sand hermits, so the beach is really one big stupid waste of land to us. Rachel can ash on it and I can try to figure out a way to play on it without actually having to touch it. For what seemed like four hours, we waited three and a half hours for the venue to stop being a bitch and just let us in with our guns blazing and illegal narcotics ready to sell to minors.

Let me just say that the Tommy Hilfiger Jones Beach Tommy Hilfiger Amphi-Hilfiger Theater was amazing (Tommy Hilfiger). And not just because Tommy Hilfiger dumped huge garbage trucks full of cash into the venue just so they can slap their corporate logo on everything and everyone within a five mile radius. Hearing a concert at Jones' Beach makes you realize how shitty your once-favorite venue really sounds. The Hammerstein, the Continental Airlines Arena, and even the $50,000 stereo system you installed in your $15,000 Hyundai "sports car" can't compete with the sheer rock power of Jones Beach.

But, to quote the Beastie Boys, "You got the boomin' system but it's blastin' out doo-doo. You think it's chocolate milk but it's watered down Yoo-Hoo." The quality of the Jones' Beach Theater sound system can only do so much, as the three opening bands still sounded like shit. I won't pick on the first two (Pulse Ultra and Meshuggah), but I would like to publicly berate the down-south hillbilly motherfuckers known as Down. I'll be the first to admit that I hate metal, and bands like this are the reason why. Down is a side project with members of Pantera, Corrosion of Conformity and some other band, yet it sounds surprisingly like Pantera, Corrosion of Conformity and some other band. Musically, they're not breaking any new ground. Luckily, Pantera's lovable Phil Anselmo fronts this musical masterpiece, and between songs, he likes to talk to his people...

Phil Anselmo: "All right you motherfuckers. We're Down, from... the fucking... south... fucking southern area... of the fucking... United States you fucking pussies. I want to see you motherfucking cocksuckers fucking kill the shit out of other, you fucking hear me? I don't wanna hear that you're all fucking tripped out and fucking alternative and shit. If you don't fucking bang your head to this shit you're a fucking faggot."


Pleasant guy. Now I know why all the Pantera fans in my old high school wanted to beat the shit out of me. Frankly, I would have beat the shit out of me if I listened to Pantera. Phil Anselmo is right. I am a fucking tripped out faggot.

Yet somehow, Jesus prevailed, and the cartoony satan sideshow known as Down had to get their sister-raping asses off the stage to make room for the headliners: System of a Down. Every couple usually has something special that they can call their own, and for Rachel and I, that super special thing is System of a Down. Concerts, in-stores, whatever, we support our local nutty Armenian band to the fullest extent, and this was no exception. So needless to say, we were fucking psyched once Down started carting their shit off the stage.

System was amazing as usual. They opened with a bizarre b-side named "Johnny" which I had only heard courtesy of Napster, and the crowd wasn't really sure what to do. You could definitely pick out the internet geeks though, because they were the only ones singing along. The stage was flanked by a huge screen which projected Systemy weirdness, like "Evil Dead 2" footage during "Jet Pilot" and Charles Mansons' eyes during "A.T.W.A." Almost every track from Toxicity was played during their hour-long set, including: "Prison Song," "Needles," "Deer Dance," "Jet Pilot," "Chop Suey," "Bounce," "Forest," "A.T.W.A." "Toxicity," "Psycho" and "Aerials." System also revisited some of their self-titled by playing stripped down versions of "War" and "Suite-Pee" along with full versions of "Sugar" and "Suggestions." Add another rare b-side entitled "Innervision" and a tongue-in-cheek reworking of the oddly-familiar "Spanish Lullaby" and you've got a crowd-pleasing gift, straight from Armenia with love.

On a scale of five (5) cute headbanging girlfriends, I'd have to give System of a Down's Jones Beach performance five (5) cute headbanging girlfriends. Although the cute girlfriend in question denies the fact that she was indeed headbanging, I would have had visual documentation had I been able to fit Rachel's camera in my ass.

 
The Greatest Doctor Who Ever Lived
Doogie got nuthin' on me -- whut. | Tuesday, 07.16.02
As much as I claim to "never watch TV," "barely even own a TV," or "not even know how to spell TV," most of my education comes from TV. I watched an hour long program about human skin yesterday, for god's sake. And luckily, Comcast provides the "people getting cut open and having stuff removed" channel, which never fails to deliver. I think it's called the "Discovery Health Channel," although no one ever appears in good health. Chances are if you're having a bansaw removed from your face, you've already discovered that your health is pretty much fucked.

Now I've never undergone an operation because I am the epitome of health and fitness, but after watching these wisecracking doctors pull stuff out and shove stuff in to the soundtrack of beeping things and squishy noises, I've decided that I can perform my own surgeries if need be. I mean, I pulled this gross birthmark thing off my neck once, and that usually requires surgery. Sure, it took three months of intense twisting and pulling, and I bled from my neck for a few days, but besides the frequent and intense dizzy spells I've had for the past 5 years, I'd say I did a bang up job. Better than some "doctor" would do with his "experience" and "understanding" of stuff. Yanking that hairy brown chocolate chip off my neck gave me the confidence I needed to slice myself open and perform all types of surgery if I really had to.

Come to think of it, I'm the greatest doctor who has ever lived. One time Rachel's labret piercing fell out and rolled someplace far away. Instead of standing around like a bitch while my girlfriend's chin hole was about to close up, I bent one of my earrings to the proper width and shoved that sum'bitch right into her face, no anasthetic, no prepping, nothing. Now that wouldn't have required intensive surgery, granted, but I had some steady-ass operating hands. I also supplied some quick thinking that no med school can provide. That's pure instinct, you motherfucker.

So, in conclusion, I'd like to accept this medical degree in advance from the reputable school of my choice. I wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for Rachel's face or the hairy chocolate chip that lived on my neck for 15 years. I sent that chocolate bastard straight to hell, and no one can ever take that away from me, because I took it away all by myself.

 
Staplers, pita bread and Pepsi One.
Amazingly, all are digestable excluding the Pepsi One. | Saturday, 07.13.02
It came to my attention yesterday that I have absolutely no idea how much I make per hour at my new job. Yesterday I received a paycheck for $268.08. Two weeks before that, I received a paycheck for $38. Two weeks before that, I received a check in the mail for $200 something, with no paystub, no hours, nothing. Just a check in an envelope. I kind of feel like Milton in Office Space, where they just stick me in the basement next to some boxes and take away my red Swingline stapler. I would complain to my five bosses, but I 'm afraid that they may realize that I don't even work there.

So what has all of my money been going towards lately (besides this Titanium black hole)? Food devoid of carbohydrates and taste. After suffering from three heart attacks in the month of May alone, I decided it was time to stop eating McDonalds fries smothered in milkshakes and Crisco. But, I can have thirteen strips of bacon smothered in milkshakes and Crisco on a pita, because everything is healthier on a pita, and six pitas for $18 is a real bargain. So far, I've lost about eight pounds, and I haven't had a bowel movement in weeks! Hooray! I mean, not excreting waste from the human body is normal, right? My only hope is fat free potato chips chemically enhanced with Olestra, which supposedly gives you more explosive diarrhea than an apple-juice parmesan sandwich. We can only pray.

Right now my desk is an orgy of water bottles and Pepsi One cans, all of which I'm too lazy to throw out or even finish drinking for that matter. Finishing an entire 12 oz can of Pepsi One requires more stamina than those guys that pull cars with their teeth have. Have you tried that shit? 10 cans ago, I thought to myself, like in my head, y'know, "This isn't so bad. Why, it's nearly as good as the calorie-laced, tasty drinks of yesteryear." Now, on my 11th can, my brain shuts down and slams the rest of my body into walls and people holding scissors. I awaken with a knife to my throat and a post-it attached to my forehead which reads "ONE MORE CAN..." written in the non-sugar soda-water bastard known as Pepsi One.

 
My Big Fat Greek Wedding.
a review by a big fat Polock. | Tuesday, 07.09.02
There is nothing worse than a blatantly predictable, corny-as-hell, happily-ever-after Chick Movie. When your girlfriend asks you to come see the new Hugh Grant flick, chances are you're going to leave the theater thoroughly unimpressed and jealous of his beautifully crafted hair. But, you're a boyfriend (or an eerily effeminate man), and she sat through Episode II for you, and she even talked about Star Wars lore with you for the next three days, so the least you can do is play along, right? I mean, really, it's only fair.

Now, I give Rachel tons and tons of credit, as she is able to resist the Chick Movie Tractor Beam, which unwillingly sucks dimwitted broads into the nearest movie theater, shoves some Snowcaps down their throats and somehow manages to turn Jennifer Aniston into a great actress. Hundreds of years ago, during my confused high school years, I was forced into seeing dozens of horrible, horrible chick movies by some she-beast, God rest her soul (if she's dead, and I'm pretty sure she is). But, Rachel is able to resist the cheesy temptation; only rarely do we see a movie that features a full man-hating cast, and if we do, it usually makes me hate men, those heartless sons-of-bitches. Still, I live in fear of the Chick Movie.

So, as the weekend approached, I hunted for a movie for us to see, knowing full well that I made the last cinematic decision, the "I really don't have an opinion about this movie" kind of movie, Insomnia. We refuse to see Men in Black II because it will probably be full of aliens, Will Smith will say something like, "Oh no you didn't, little alien," and then Tommy Lee Jones will frown a lot. Suddenly, a film title caught my eye, and although my "Chick Movie alarm" went off, I paused...

Chick Movie Status... processing...
Negative qualities:
a) the word "Wedding" is in the title.
b) it's got, like, y'know, chicks and stuff in it.

Positive qualities:
a) no sign of Hugh Grant.
b) no sign of Julia Roberts.

Perfect, we're going. "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" was an excellent movie, and guys, you don't have to feel like a big fairy while forking over the cash with your hairy paw. What I truly admired about this film was that it didn't throw anything in your face: the love story, while very important, isn't full of dorky cliches. And the comedy, while also very important, isn't thrown up in your face. Everything is tastefully executed, the funny stuff is funny and the lovey stuff is cute.

Of course, I wouldn't have seen this movie if I wasn't with Rachel, just because it wouldn't show up on my heterosexual male radar. But this was probably the best love-themed movie I've seen since Chasing Amy (the other chick-movie that it's ok to like). Sure, you'll leave the theater in a gelatinous pile of love-goo, but you're supposed to. "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" will make you laugh, will make you sigh lovingly and hold onto your significant other a little more closely.

*obligatory sitcom "aww" sound effect: AWWWWWWWWWWW*

 
The Only Way to Know For Sure
a review of the new Rollins Band live album. | Friday, 07.05.02
If the new Rollins Band live CD "The Only Way to Know For Sure" could physically remove itself from your stereo and curb-stomp your little sister, not only would it, but it would come for your sorry ass next. Two discs chronicle two nights with the Rollins Band at the Metro, and their 41 year old punk-graduate frontman has never sounded more raw. The "caged animal" imagery often associated with Rollins' stage presence can be heard throughout nearly all 28 tracks, the bulk of which appeared on 2001's ill-received "Nice." "Nice" was too polished, too perfect. It raised the bar for the band's production values, but the intensity and desperation found in their earlier offerings was lost. "The Only Way to Know For Sure" pumps some life into the "Nice" tracks and removes all the fluff that just got in the way.

This is the second incarnation of the Rollins Band, and the new members know their stuff. It's some the old stuff that they can't seem to get a hold of. "Disconnect" and "All I Want," two songs from the former band, just sound off. The old band (featuring Chris Haskett, Melvin Gibbs and Sim Cain) created twisted and complex playgrounds for Henry to run amuck in; the new band just torches the damn thing to the ground. Their straightforward "we came here to rock your fucking socks off" attitude takes the Rollins Band into an entirely different direction.

No one is going to buy this album unless they own at least three other Rollins albums. It's not going to break any records, it's not even going to jump out at you when you walk into your favorite music store. But it will raise my expectations towards every live album I hear from now on. "The Only Way to Know For Sure" is the live album you want your favorite band to put out; the sound quality is perfect, the atmosphere has a kind of laid back intensity (if such a thing exists), and you really feel like you're in that crowd in Chicago. This is the best live Rollins Band album to date, and a great way to rediscover the vast catalogue of their career.

 
Geekier than Weezer at a Linux Convention.
This shit is mad geeky, bitch. | Tuesday, 07.02.02
Sorry to my legions and legions of fans, but don't be surprised if the site isn't updated for a few more days. Why, you ask? In my quest to buy every piece of computer equipment that I cannot afford, I ordered a Titanium Powerbook from the Apple Store a few days ago, and after a short stay in our nation's capitol, Middletown, Pennsylvania, it finally arrived this morning. For geeky nerd geeks, here are the specs that you won't care about: G4 800 mhz / 512 ram / 40 gig hd / cd-rw dvd drive / airport card / small Mexican boy / and his parents. I have a wireless internet card, but no wireless internet base station, as it has been sitting on a dock in Taiwan for the past week according to the FedEx tracking number. I don't think the signal will reach to Taiwan.

So, to reiterate, I won't be updating because I have a new computer and you don't. Thank you.

 

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