It is a short one: sic.
I think what I like about it is the inherent snarkiness of it. It is there to clarify that some other dumbass could not spell a particular word, that the current writer is well aware of that fact, and that he hopes to distance himself from the error.
On an unrelated note, why do I even keep this website?
I can’t believe people fall for this shit:
Andrew David Office
David Consultant Intl
12, Victoria Avenue
N.S.W, 29110, Sydney
Australia27/12/07
ATTENTION BENEFICIARY
Final Notification of Bequest
Congratulation On behalf of the Trustees and Executor of the estate of Late Enrg.Rolland Newman, I once again try to notify you as my earlier letter to you through the Post Office was returned undelivered, therefore I now attempt to reach you via your email address as it appears to be the next and the only option left explored.
Enrg.Rolland Newman(late), made you a beneficiary in his will, he left Two Million United States Dollars (US$2.000.000.00) to you in the codicil and last testament to his Will.
My client, Enrg Rolland Newman was a pioneer member of STRABAG CONSTRUCTION CO.LTD, a dedicated Christian and Philanthropist. He died on 2004 and his Will is now ready for execution.
Please If I reach you as I am hopeful I will, endeavor to get back to me as soon as possible to enable me conclude my job, you should forward along your current telephone and Fax numbers, your current mailing address.
Once again, I congratulate you for this is a significant honor indeed as it behooves you here fore to act at once to avoid risk of forfeiture to the deceased family.
Yours In Service,
Andrew David (Sectional Head)
Probate and Bequest Division For: TRAVERS ROLAND
BRAITHWAITE & PARTNERS
I responded, rather than simply deleting:
It is good to know my fictitious relatives were well-to-do.
Please donate any slice of the pie due to me to a charity of your choice.
With luck, “fictitious” will not register with them and they will reply asking me for more information.
The convoluted paragraph circled below just sends me…
“Past precedence exists”? Oy.
This is truly a tag-team gaffe. The writer got a word completely wrong by leaning too heavily on his spell-checker, and the speaker seems to think that precedents can exist somewhere besides the past. One needs a better editor and the other needs to apply for a position in Dell’s Department of Redundancy Department.
This just showed up in my gmail account from an old friend:
Apple Computers announced today that it has developed a computer chip that can store and play music in women’s breast implants.
The iBoob will cost between $499 and $599. This is considered to be a major breakthrough, because women are always complaining about men staring at their breasts and not listening to them.
Thanks to Apple, everyone is now happy.
And here I thought “iBoob” was the term Apple uses internally to describe anyone willing to shell out $600 for an iPhone. I sit corrected.
Edit:
I emailed this to my girlfriend and she nearly immediately responded:
Apple….always ahead of the curve…
I am a lucky man, that is for sure.
…are doomed to repeat it (sorta).
A big thanks goes to Raymond Chen and his The Old New Thing blog for bringing this hilarious video to my attention.
Friends and enemies alike have accused me of seeing everything in this world in terms of black or white, yes or no, on or off, right or wrong. That assessment, while probably fair in many ways, misses some of the subtlety that makes me “me”. Enter the Venn diagram…
These things are beautiful, and they allow me to better explain how I see things in life by defining that area of overlap between the black and the white, the yes and the no, the on and the off, and even between right and wrong. My brain creates these things all the time. I usually just giggle at them and let the thought pass, but an example jumped out at me today that I could not pass up the opportunity to share.
There is one key thing wrong with the photograph below. I am not talking about composition of the subject matter, the brightness/contrast ratio, or the drab colors it contains, either.
To best describe what is wrong, refer to the snappy Venn diagram I made to describe the scene:
Set A:
Men who avoid touching the feces- and urine-laden pull handle on the restroom door with their bare hands by using paper towels to open said door.Set B:
Men who leave the restroom with their hands still wet.Set A∩B:
Men who are too lazy/busy/cool/assholey to bother getting their used paper towel into the conveniently-placed waste receptacle and expect someone else to do it for them.
Conclusions?
Ah, to be a meteorologist. How does one get such a sweet gig as that? The hours are flexible, you get to play with some sweet technological equipment, no one dies* when you screw up, and the job has ZERO accountability.
I mean seriously. Look at this example from Weather.com’s forecast for this afternoon. I’m trying to plan whether or not to attend the Seattle Beerfest, and some solid weather information would be helpful. This is not solid weather information:
Thunderstorms are predicted. This is very unusual for the Seattle area. But on the flip side, there is only a 40% chance of any precipitation. In what kind of BizarroWorld does this sort of thing make sense? It doesn’t make sense at all, and it doesn’t need to. We’ve all simply grown accustomed to this sort of insanity and ambiguity. Could you imagine getting a similar prediction from your doctor? “Ma’am, your husband is going to die before dinnertime. However, there is a 40% chance that he will recover fully.” Insanity, I say.
I tip my hat to those who were smart enough to go to school and learn how to generate graphical (mis-)representations of the weather like the one above. Seriously. The bitterness I harbor about the cushiness of your work is completely offset by the comfort I get from knowing you did not end up as a doctor, an air-traffic controller, or in any other occupation that can have life or death consequences. We are all safer thanks to your life choices.
*OK, so there was this time when I was a kid where my dad and I donned hip waders and trekked out to an island in a reservoir near Duluth, MN, to go camping based on Richard “Heatwave”** Berler’s report that we would have a dry weekend ahead. Of course it rained like a sumbitch, wind nearly blew our tent away with us in it, and lightning split one of the trees at our campsite. Adding insult to injury, the lake rose several inches because of the storm. The boots that kept us dry going in were water-filled weights going out. But technically, we did not die.
**“Heatwave” might possibly be the best nickname for a meteorologist EVER. Mr. Berler is still paying the bills with his forecasting skills, too. Let that be a warning to all you would-be campers in the Laredo, TX, area.
I try to carry a digital camera with me at all times, because I have missed far too many funny pictures in the past. This one did not escape.
I took the above picture from the sidewalk in front of the Adidas store at 5th and Pike in downtown Seattle. The front door was open, and these perky torsos were nearly poking their way out the entrance. This is understandable, as from the looks of it, that is one very cold store.
Nipples serve as both a food source for young mammals and as a source of fascination for older (generally male) mammals. I freely admit that I consider myself a fan, but nipples…on mannequins…what purpose could they possibly serve?
One theory is that women want to know how badly they will “nip out” in a particular garment, and these dummies serve to show them the worst-case scenario. Another theory is that they are designed for the visual pleasure of men who would otherwise have very little to do while being dragged through a store by a woman shopping for activewear. A cynic might invert the first theory and say that they are there to show a woman who is proud of her pea-smuggling abilities exactly what to expect when she dons that shirt. As a cynic, I take that third theory as gospel.
Whatever their purpose, there is clearly something wrong with how the Adidas folks implemented them. Look closely to the image below, which is a zoomed-in on one of the three mannequins:
One of those nipples is either misplaced or it is migratory. This sort of asymmetry in a person isn’t that unusual. In a manufactured midriff, however, it is just downright odd. Maybe they are like Mr. Potato Head parts and can be positioned in one of several places on each breast. It is going to be difficult to not go into that store and try moving one tomorrow.
June 19, 2007 Update: I walked by this store today and noticed that the mannequin display had been completely changed. The new setup is comprised entirely of male mannequins that show no signs that they even possess nipples. It is highly unlikely that I had anything to do with this, but the timing sure is funny. Good times!
Being the sysadmin for a small company has many perks, but having to be the person who deletes all traces of someone you call “friend” from said company’s systems is not one of them. The other night I felt every bit like Winston Smith sitting at his desk in the Ministry of Truth as I checked the box next to “Hide from Exchange address lists” and rendered someone invisible. Of course there are many other steps in the process of removing someone from our various systems, but this is the one that felt the most ironic and poignant.
The next day, an announcement came out about who was going to be taking over this person’s duties, and the whole office seemed to be joking about what it meant for this person to be moving from one end of the office to the other. I know that doing anything besides “moving on” would not have good consequences, but the sheer volume of lighthearted messages being tossed about made me feel a little sick.
I’ll get over this soon, I am sure. I have had to do it before and I will have to do it again. It just leaves me with a sense of powerlessness. I had nothing to do with the decision to let this person go, and I have no idea what the back story might be as far as management’s reasoning goes. Ultimately, it isn’t any of my business.
It is a good reminder to keep the resume updated, though, I guess. That’s always a good idea. You never know when it will be your turn.
I just received the following in an email from my mom entitled “Shopping Experience”. It was not until the punchline that I realized it was a joke. That surely made it even funnier for me!
The new Supermarket near our house has an automatic mist machine to keep the produce fresh. Just before it goes on, you hear the sound of a thunderstorm.
When you approach the milk cases, you hear cows mooing.
When you approach the egg case, you hear hens cackle.
So far I have been too afraid to go down the toilet paper aisle.
If you were electrocuted by overhead power lines at Talladega Speedway while erecting a flag honoring your favorite NASCAR driver…
…you might have been a redneck.
I’ve noticed something here in the Seattle area this early Spring: there are not many lilac shrubs to be found.
Lilac blossoms are, to me, the apex of the olifactory world’s offerings. Nothing soothes me, distracts me, riles me or whisks my mind away like the scent of lilacs in bloom. If they bloomed year round, I would probably be a poet.
I initially thought I would have to put this post in the “MN is Better” category, but I recognized later that this truly is a wash. Lilacs act as of a double-edged sword in my life. If I am romantically involved, lilacs heighten the experience and lead to a state Hindus call “Nirvana”. If I am terminally single, lilacs act as a cruel reminder that I am very much alone.
It all boils down to lilacs being a “romantic mnemomic”, and frankly, I don’t need any more reminders in my life.
Definitely a wash here.
One of my more saucy (salty?) co-workers just sent this one to the “All” group here at the office. It made me giggle enough that I had to post it here as well.
Little Red Riding Hood is skipping down the road when she sees a big bad wolf crouched down behind a log.
“My, what big eyes you have, Mr.Wolf.”
The wolf jumps up and runs away.
Further down the road Little Red Riding Hood sees the wolf again and this time he is crouched behind a bush.
“My what big ears you have, Mr. Wolf.”
Again the wolf jumps up and runs away.
About two more miles down the road Little Red Riding Hood sees the wolf again and this time he is crouched down behind a rock.
“My what big teeth you have Mr. Wolf.”
With that the wolf jumps up and screams, “Will you knock it off, I’m trying to poop!”
Tiger Woods recently caught hell from the British press for saying something to the effect of “I putted like a spaz.”
What a crock of shit.
It would seem that the term “spaz” has a derogatory meaning in Great Britain and other (European?) countries that equates directly back to spastic paralysis, a form of cerebral palsy.
I could see British spaz advocates getting mildly bent out of shape if the comment had been made in Great Britain, but it was made in Augusta, Georgia. Had it been made in Great Britain, at least it would have qualified as a faux pax. As it stands, it is nothing but the media over-reacting to what must have been an otherwise slow news day.
Reuters reports:
Britain-based disability organization Scope, formerly The Spastics Society, said of Woods’s comments: “Once again, Tiger Woods demonstrates that we are two nations divided by a common language.”
Formerly The Spastics Society? Pardon me? I wonder how long ago some dumbass figured out what a bad name that is for a group trying to advance a cause and which wants to be taken seriously. It seems that despite the division mentioned above that we are also joined by a common political correctness. Oh joy.
There is a thing called a spasm that happens in the muscles of all people from time to time. It happens to me more and more as I age, actually. On top of that, “spaz” has become an American colloquialism that transcends any antiquated definitions the rest of the world may be using.
I understand the need to placate the whole planet, Tiger. If I had your endorsement deals I would have retracted the comment and apologized for it as well. Because I have no such deals, I will revel in my ability to call myself a spaz. Hell, most of the time I am a royal fucking spaz.
Gawd, that felt good.
Several years’ worth of marketing eroded my will to resist any further, so I gave in today and snagged a can of Red Bull with my lunch.
Can I just say this stuff better give me wings? It tastes like something that ought not be imbibed.
Anyway, I just got back after a short bathroom break. It appears that Red Bull gives me urine, and that is about it. Maybe after years of Mountain Dew and Coca-Cola consumption I am immune to the effects of this product. Oh well.
My silly friend Chris (web_wizard_888 on Neopets) made a quick artist’s rendition of me drinking Red Bull. He drew the wings in despite the fact that they never appeared for me. It makes me giggle, so I am posting it here.
I’m so easily amused. Quite often, it seems, I get a LOT of amusement from creative people working with Flash.
This latest example is a site that is full of spot-on, Flash-based parodies of movies. Did I mention that the actors are all bunnies and each movie is only about 30 seconds long? This saves a lot of wasted time and rental fees if you ask me. Call it “Cliff Notes for Movies for Dummies”. Or something.
Enjoy!
Ever since I gave up my lovely window view and moved to an interior office, I have to vicariously enjoy the views of others. I had a nice experience this morning with my neighbor Scott. He is across the hall from me and has a lovely view of Elliott Bay out his window. The building right next to ours has a plastic Great Horned Owl on one corner of the roof. Ostensibly, this is there to drive away other birds, including crows.
A few minutes ago, I heard Scott laugh and say, “I don’t think that owl is working very well.” I asked him what he meant, and he indicated that a crow had alighted on top of it. I got up to look, and sure as hell, there was a crow perched on that faux owl.
This also might explain why the owl’s noggin appears whitish from here. I’ve heard of Great Horned Owls having an “arctic” plumage where they are light gray overall, but this looks more like a “guano” plumage where his head has been shat upon repeatedly. This poor critter must suffer this indignance quite often considering the amount of rain we have received this winter.
This is also still more evidence that crows are smarter than most people think.
Thanks once again to the folks over at Slashdot, my sanity and faith in humanity has been restored.
The above-linked article is about a report claiming that a particular quantum computer “works better” when it isn’t “running”. Without getting into the brain-asploding aspects of quantum anything, one can enjoy the geek/physicist humor found therein.
Q: How does one overclock Schrödinger’s PC?
A: Buy more cats.
I know funny, and that, my friends, is funny. 
The law firm I work for has a vending machine in the break room that dispense cans of soda. When I go to grab my change after making a purchase, roughly half the time I get back more change than I should.
Is this:
a) A malfunctioning piece of equipment,
b) An altruistic act by a kind person or persons who leave coins for those who come after them in case they do not have enough for a beverage,
c) Forgetfulness, or
d) A sure sign that attorneys make more bank than mere mortals
Any thoughts? My vote is somewhere in between C & D.
Really, I do not hate Oprah. I did get your attention though, didn’t I? I respect Oprah for the humanitarian deeds she has done, but the drones who respond to her every whim (command?) leave me bothered. This was a topic discussed with a few coworkers over lunch on my birthday. Anyway, I should probably get on with the meat and potatoes of this post.
I just woke myself up from a dead sleep by shouting “I hate Oprah!” in a dream. Surely I was snoring at the time, too, as my mouth was parched as I awoke. This affected my yelling both in the dream and in reality. In the dream, I burst out a door to shout to the world and it came out feebly at first. The “I” was more of an “Ahhhh”. Without hesitation, in the dream mind you, I changed the tone a little so I could project “I hate Oprah” a little more softly. It wasn’t as loud as it could have been, and it sounded a hell of a lot like John’s Hurt’s The Elephant Man character shouting “I am not an animal!”.
Judging by how my cats were eyeing me up when I came to, I suspect I really did vocalize this opinion. After tossing some clothes over myself, I got up to grab a can of Coke to clear my head. I asked my aunt if she heard me shouting. I suspect she was just being polite when she told me that she had the TV up pretty loud and couldn’t hear much other than that. (Which, might I add, is probably more evidence that I was snoring, and snoring loudly.)
The odd thing about this whole scenario is that the antagonist in the dream was not Oprah. It was Martha Stewart. When I explained this to my aunt, she suggested that it might be time to switch brands of beer.
Too true. Back to the Hefeweisen. This lager shit is gonna kill me.