TANcast

STOP THE PRESS: I’m thinking about buying an i(ntel)Mac instead of building my own desktop PC from scratch.

I also think I may start wearing black turtlenecks with jeans, but it could just be the time of year…

I made that. Go make your own.

Things I have learned in my short time in the South:

• There is no CJ’s, only Hardee’s.
• Jack in the Box is a distant dream. By that I mean it is 200 miles away.
• Don’t even ask about In ‘N Out Burger.
• Here it’s Edy’s, not Dreyer’s. Apparently the other guy who started the company wanted some credit, too.
• You can’t buy alcohol on Sunday except in licensed bars in certain areas, because the whole fucking state is the little town from Footloose.
• On a related note, you can’t buy liquor from grocery stores, only wine and beer.
• Continuing the theme: They don’t call the only places you can buy hard liquor “liquor stores”, they call them “package stores” or “bottle stores”. I guess it’s to confuse Al Qaeda.
• Chicken is best served with pickles. Don’t ask me why, but every chicken sandwich has pickles on it. I ordered chicken NUGGETS and the fucking things tasted like pickles.
• Everything, especially biscuits, needs gravy. I don’t even know how they make gravy from biscuits. I thought you needed meat juices.
• Bail bonds, DUI schools, and title pawns are everywhere. I have no comment.
• 3 Christian Contemporary stations isn’t enough, but 2 Alternative Rock stations is more than the market can handle.
• Turn signals are optional. In fact their use shows you to be an outsider or otherwise dangerously interested in living.
• Checking your mirrors or looking over your shoulder before you change 3 lanes without signaling is also optional and apparently not a standard part of drivers training.
• Good luck getting anywhere. I swear to God that streets here are 4-D objects: you can actually be at the intersection of a street and itself. I passed myself the other day. I didn’t signal. Fucker.

I’m sure there are some things I am forgetting, but that is the knowledge gained thus far. I’ll report again when I come to my senses.

“Taste the Rainbow” indeed…

On a totally unrelated subject, if you suspect your girl is an android, you should check for a switch. Stick your finger up her butt and see if it turns her off. If  it does, she’s a fembot and you need to RUN AWAY!

If it turns her ON, she’s a keeper…

Sorry, ladies, but this hunk of raw manflesh is off the market. From here on in this is a pairs game only. The bacon’s taken. Insert your own mangled metaphor here.

What I am driving at is that I am married.

No, seriously.

Yes, to a girl.

No, I didn’t pay her.

No, she isn’t an actress I paid to stand next to me to convince my mother that I am not a gay. I already said I didn’t pay her.

No, smart-ass, nobody paid her on my behalf.

Okay, I’m done talking to you now. Asshole…

I walked along the beach last week,
and exposed my soul to the women I met there.

Now my karma has a sunburn.

When someone gives Jack Bauer a birthday cake, he takes it to a dark room and cuts it slowly to extract information.

On a related note, Survivor has taught me that ladies appearing on the show need to wear sports bras. And maybe leave the house once in a while before appearing on a show that takes place in the outdoors and lasts for 5 weeks. I’m just saying, you know exactly where you are going and for how long…

On a related note, I was skimming through the American Idol “tryouts” episodes looking for Slappy in a Superman costume and I was reminded that lots of people who should never, ever sing never, ever get told so by the people near them. I suspect that this is because the people near them are also tone deaf and thus are not driven away by the awful singing. My theory is that there is a selection bias at work, where the people left nearby won’t inform the singer of their lack of talent because they are actually unable to be aware of it. Everyone who isn’t tone deaf leaves before the song ends.

On a related note, people on Survivor also need to be aware of this bias and not assume they should start singing to their tribemates.

He hasn’t collected much in the way of armor and we haven’t seen him cast any obvious spells (except perhaps “Turn Smoke-Monster”), but he does have that

Jesus Stick of +5 Beating!

This is a “blast from the past” post from time-traveling Andy.  I’ve pre-dated it to a time when I was asleep in a ca. 1973 beater RV in my uncle’s driveway in Chula Vista, CA in order to post about a play I saw a few weeks prior to that with the fiancee’s parents. I didn’t travel all the way to the night we saw the play because I like how the RV smells.

So, we were at this play put on by a local (and excellent) theater (theatre?) troupe (troop?) when I began to fear for my life. It was a stage presentation of Disney’s Beauty and the Beast (Disney seems to insist on it’s name being part of the play’s name) but, I swear to Buddha, I thought it must have been Outbreak: The Musical.

It has been a long, long time since I have heard so many rude sons of bitches coughing loudly during slow or quiet parts of a play. I know winter is cold season, but in a house that seats maybe 350 or 400 patrons of the arts I wouldn’t expect dozens of them to have whooping cough at the same time.

Then it hit me:

The dead don’t cough.

Last night I took my fiancee to see Keith Urban at the Shark Tank for her Chrismahanukwanzakah present. He’s on her list, so we had a deal: if she left with him I was allowed to leave with Nicole…

We had third row seats, because I am that awesome. We didn’t have first row, because even my awesomeness is limited.

We were so close I could smell the sweat of Keith Urban’s balls, and it was the most wholesome, refreshing thing I have ever smelled. It was like the scent of a baby’s head mixed with the sweetness of honey.

Aw, shit. Now I’m hungry…