Archive for March, 2008

Computer Love

March 24, 2008

God, love can sweep away a young heart with the greatest of ease. So today, while not doing anything at work, I found a friend request in my Myspace inbox. “Oh joy!” I thought to myself, “perhaps another human being is actually interested in David Bowie and Roger Corman movies!” Eagerly I clicked away, anxious to greet my new friend. As I entered the friends request section, I saw a rather attractive female’s picture. “Ohhh, I know what’s going on here. Another hot Austrian girl wants to fuck me” I sighed. Lo and behold, I was right. A hot Austrian girl with semi-nude pictures and 1000+ friends. Like always, I went for the “DENY!” button, but at that very moment, a strange notion came over me: give this hot Austrian girl a chance Thinker! Why are you constantly denying hot Austrian girls your massive American penis?! I complied. This is what transpired (annotated in red):

THINKER: are you a robot or something? (This is generally how I test my women out. If they say they aren’t robots, I’ll probably sleep with them. If they say they are robots, I’ll DEFINITELY sleep with them.)

[Jamie deluxe]aka[Schneeflittchen]: are you an idiot or sth? (I knew what an idiot was, but I was perplexed by “sth.” Perhaps she was asking me if I was a sith lord? At this point I knew I was in love.)

THINKER: haHA! well i am definitely an idiot, but sth.. according to the internet, that could mean any of these things (the ones with * are things that i might be):

STH Save the Homeland (gaming, Harvest Moon series)
STH Schwab, Twitty Hanser Architectural Group, Inc
*STH Season Ticket Holder STH
Sequential Trunk Hunt (call assignment scheme)
STH Shadow the Hedgehog (game)
STH Sheffield Teaching Hospitals
STH Sheraton Towers Hotel
***STH So Totally Hot
STH Somatotropic Hormone (growth hormone)
STH Something (IRC/SMS)
*StH Sonic the Hedgehog
STH Speed Touch Home (Alcatel DSL)
*STH Stairway To Heaven (song and TV show)
STH Steeper Than Hell (ski run at Snowbird, Utah)
*STH Stockholm STH Store Halfword (IBM)
STH String Handle
STH Structural-Thermal Subsystem
*STh Student in Theology
*STH System Test Hardware (I would have also accepted Speed Touch Home, which sounds like something I might enjoy.)

[Jamie deluxe]aka[Schneeflittchen]: uhm… ok i..m sorry i..m very angry cause a fucking idiot hacked my password and added many people , who i don..t know ok?
and i don..t know what he wrote, i looked at my profile and it wasn..t mine but it was my account and i don..t understand it please can you tell me what he/she wrote?
it would be very nice and i..m sorry for my behaviour
(Oh no! Someone hacked my girlfriend’s Myspace account! What a fuckhole!)


THINKER: i’m sorry your account got hacked; i thought you were just one of the hundreds of austrian women who fall in love with me regularly via myspace. i’ll understand if that isn’t the case. (Could I possibly be setting myself up for heartbreak?)

[Jamie deluxe]aka[Schneeflittchen]: thank you very much my account got hacked? biiiiaaatch… shit^^

what shell i do now?

i chnaged the password…??

fuck… do you know what he wrote? (Who is this mysterious Myspace-hacking asshole!? Better turn up the heat a bit, to calm her down and make her moist via the Babelfish translator.)

THINKER: i know! isn’t this completely insane? to think, an account getting hacked on myspace!!he told me that you love me, and that you want to come to america and be my wife. i got very excited, and almost made plane reservations! he said you wanted to cook me a traditional austrian meal (i was worried about it containing dead jews, but i would’ve been brave for you)!

i think you might be safe now that the password is new. MAYBE…! oh, and if you still want to come to america and be my wife, i can probably still put the order through on Expedia. (SOLID.)

[Jamie deluxe]aka[Schneeflittchen]: i..m so so rry

it..wasn..t me but is so nice from you totell me whatt happened

i..ll go to america soon but with my friends i..m going to be a nurs and a friend of mine nad me we fly to california … holiday

oh my god i..m so sorry did he say something else? (Not solid.)

THINKER: no, no.. he didn’t say anything else. though i am now, completely heartbroken. my heart, is broken. i am so sad, once again without a wife, who (in this case) would’ve been a hot austrian nurse.

nietzsche was right; god really is dead. 😦

when you get to california, be sure to eat at jack in the box. its my favorite fast food restaurant. think of me when you eat that double bacon and cheese ciabatta burger.i’m going to cry now. goodbye my love.

…and like that, she was gone forever. Well, I mean she’s not really gone gone, I’m sure she’s still in Austria, planning to come to California with friends, eating Jack in the Box…FUCK! Now with my luck, Rod is going to fuck my hot Austrian exfiance. FUCK YOU ROD!

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The Gang’s All Here

March 17, 2008

Alright, look. If you, the reader, and I, the writer, of this “blog” are in fact going to “get along,” it is imperative that you know something about me. Something deeply telling of my personality and my life, that could literally make or break our reader-to-writer relationship. I, Rod Jenson, absolutely love Chinese food.

I don’t even love authentic, straight-from-China, Chinese food. I mean, that stuff is good too. I’ve had some here and there and let me tell you, it is some good food. Try some the next time you find yourself in a position to do so, because it’s not very often you get that chance, unless you happen to live in China. And who the fuck wants to live in China? I mean, this blog is probably already blocked by their government by now. Shit, all of WordPress is probably blocked by now.

But no, the Chinese food that I love so dearly is in fact the type of Chinese food you get from those little half fast-food, half legitimate “restaurant” style places, that are in the corner of the food court, next to the Togo’s and the Mongolian grill. One in particular, called Golden Chopsticks, has always tickled my taste buds, and is probably responsible for about one third of my body weight today. I go in there at least once a week, usually on Saturday’s, and lemme tell you, it’s fucking good food. Alas, there is one small problem with this restaurant. Well, not so much a problem, as it is a peculiarity. The place is fucking weird.

The inside of the store itself is actually very nice. Well organized, clean, and simple, it is the epitome of easy “get in, get out” fast food. It is for these and many more reasons that I have to wonder why, whenever I walk into this restaurant, be it noon, 5 in the morning, 8 at night, any time of the day, the place is fucking empty! Everybody I know, knows that Golden Chopsticks is a marvelous eating establishment, and yet to this day I have never seen one of them ever set foot into that fucking restaurant. I’ve never seen anybody in that restaurant before I get there. Sometimes I walk in and the employees aren’t even there. The money I’ve taken from the register in such situations is also probably responsible for about a third of the aforementioned weight that the restaurant accounts for in my overall body mass.

Now, the restaurant does not stay empty, not by any means. Usually right after I have placed my order and, as is the custom in this place, immediately received my meal, people start to walk in. Slowly at first, eventually building up to a rate the store can barely accommodate. Initially, an old, forty-something, born again Christian woman will walk into the store, and after very slowly and agonizingly ordering a plate of fat-free food (from a place that specializes in individually frying every grain of rice by hand), she sits down to her meal. Oddly enough, she then grabs the chili sauce bottle on the edge of the table, and begins dousing her food in what is essentially a liquefied heart attack. This is exactly what is weird about this place. The people.

Walking into a McDonald’s, you may find a screaming child or two; you may find a redneck, or even something very out of the ordinary like a firefighter or an astronaut. Meanwhile, at the Chinese place, a pirate with two wooden legs has just stumbled in the door, and is using the support of the tables to move him along the tile floor without slipping. As he struggles to keep his balance, the parrot on his shoulder lets out a squawk and flies over to peck at the forty-something woman’s head. Rather than become annoyed, she takes no notice, instead realizing that the nozzle on her chili sauce bottle is hindering the progress of the chili sauce mountain currently residing atop her side of kung pao chicken. She unscrews the nozzle and continues to pour chili sauce, now through the well-sized hole in the top of the bottle that the nozzle formerly sat upon.

While your adventures at Jack-in-the-Box (or Sonic Burger, for those of you unfortunate east-coasters who don’t possess the privilege of having your very own neighborhood Jack-in-the-Box) have amounted to Bimbo the Clown walking in, squeaky shoes and all, and calmly ordering a Bacon Ultimate Cheeseburger with a side salad, I’m sitting over at the Golden Chopsticks, surrounded by the entire fucking rest of the circus, who apparently decided to kick Bimbo out of the clown car a few blocks down the road because he was making racist jokes. As the pirate sits down, ever so carefully due to his wooden appendages, a circus man sits across from him, asking him to pick a card. Glancing past their dull game of solitaire, I notice that the woman in the corner of the restaurant has abandoned her kung pao chicken altogether, and has taken to pouring the chili sauce on her face and body, savoring every last drop of the scalding liquid spices. That is weird. Bimbo’s preference for a delicious sandwich at a famous west-coast restaurant is not.

So the next time you’re sitting in your cozy, normal, fast-food place, and take note at the peculiarity of the sweaty construction worker team that strolled so calmly in, think of me, sitting in the Chinese food place. Because, unknown to you, the same construction workers forgot to put the parking break on their dumptruck, and it is now rolling down the hill, about to crash into the Golden Chopsticks. Peaking through the rubble of the collision, I can see that the pirate, severely weirded out by this point, is crawling back to the parking lot, terrified. It also looks like he’s going to need a wooden right arm to replace the one he just lost in the dumptruck accident. He’ll be back next week.

By this point, fire woman over here is naked, rolling around in a puddle of fucking chili sauce created by all of the bottles having broken during the crash. It was only a matter of time before she would have done it herself. The circus people are busy trying to find a way to all fit into the dumptruck (you’d think they’d be able to, having just come out of that toy car that the truck flattened upon entry). At a time like this, the only thing left to do is to casually step by and snatch sauce-girl’s untouched plate of Chinese food, and walk out the door. Next time, I’m going to fucking Jack-in-the-Box.

Hi There!

March 15, 2008

My name is Thinker St. James, and I really don’t want to talk to you!

Seriously. I sit in an office building from 9-5 sporting a smile so phony that when I pass mirrors, I mistake myself for Joan Rivers. A masculine, sexy male version of Joan Rivers. A Joan Rivers Phoenix, if you will. I can stretch for jokes with the best of ’em: thank you corporate America.

Anyway like I said, I really don’t want to talk to you, but knowing you, you’re going to talk anyway. And as luck would have it, I get to be the target of your oratory projections. Yay me! I tip my hat to you, annoying asshole; you fill the gap between my internet porn searches (ie. those vane attempts to get fired from this shithole job) and my daily contemplation of suicide (ie. literally getting “fired,” also an attempt to escape this shithole job). Like a good cubicle neighbor, you know all the right ways to invoke coworker necktie strangulation, or perhaps a letter-opener to the jugular, or even the rare but completely satisfying staplegun to the face (repeatedly). Of course I’ve only heard about such therapeutic qualities. No, I don’t know why Ted hasn’t been to work for the last week and a half.

Why do my vague threats always fail to make you sit the fuck down and leave me alone? Silly me, I can easily answer that question: no one else in the office is willing to listen to your marvelous (dare you say heroic) tales of last night’s cuisine a la Ralph, and at this point, it’s gotten so bad that you’re willing to forego the risk of bodily injury by unloading upon the last (captive) audience at your disposal. Ralph, let me be the one to break this to you in a way that every single living organism in this building wishes they could: NO ONE GIVES A FUCK ABOUT YOUR USE OF OREGANO. Not one, single, fucking, person, in this entire building, gives a rat’s ass about what types of tomatoes you used in your penne prima vera al dente minestrone lamponi fuckin’ prosciutto pimento specialé! Ralph, you’re Polish, okay? Stop pretending that you understand the Italian words you’re using! Jesus fucking Christ man!

Lucky me. God must’ve caressed my beautiful Joan Rivers Phoenix face, seating me in this cardboard square just a few feet away from you. Clowns to the left of me, the Iron Chef to my right. I wish I was Chairman Kaga, revealing that today’s secret ingredient is a 17th century war cannon, aimed squarely at your prematurely balding forehead. But no. No, no no, no…no. I just smile. Thank God I never come to work sober.

One day, this world is going to end. And on that day, every person will face a higher power, however you define it. Ralph, you’re going to be the one talking about linguine. Perhaps that’ll gain you entrance into the kingdom of the angels. As for me, I’ll be the gin-soaked drug user that looks Vishnu in the eye and says “Hey pal, you gave me this life. Fuckin’ ay, I lived it.” Courage before the flames of hell.

Now all I have to do is get the network administrator to notice the foot fetish porn I so very much enjoy and end my arduous tenure at this stupid fucking job.