Author Archive

…or watch the paint dry.

July 31, 2008

Welcome back, longtime Forklifts Unlimited fans! You really are the greatest followers in all the galaxy. For surely you are those who discover the subtle nuances of greatness that the casual browser misses. Surely you are not bored and randomly reading the sprawled musings of a genius welder (and also those of my partner Rod). You’re not eating a burrito half-reading while glancing at season two of McGyver playing on your television screen! I know it to be otherwise. I have greater faith in the Forklifts Unlimited Fanbase (FUnbase USA for our domestic fans, FUnternationalbase for the out-of-towners). And despite what statistics may tell us, I know you’re out there fair readers; secretly viewing our words through some highly-technical method of concealment that tricks WordPress into not registering a unique hit. It’s okay man: I respect your privacy.

But to return to my unstated point: the above profession of pride in our readership was all based on the in-depth mental analysis of boredom I conducted while driving home from work this evening. “What could possibly bore THINKER?” I thought to myself aimlessly in the silent darkness of the wide-open spaces through which I was traveling. My mind went blank; could I possibly take a substantial interest in every situation, happenstance and context imaginable?

I trained my thoughts. “Alright THINKER, on the count of three, its time for some serious boredom” I said out loud to myself like a lunatic. “Three! Two! One! Wait, that wouldn’t be the count of three then would it? Damn it, anyway BORED!”

There I sat, completely immersed in the uncomfortable feeling of lamenting disinterest. Unsatisfied, uninspired, and certainly not entertained. “Success!” I cried out in my mind. “Now, how do I remedy this wanton inkling for something other than this?” I sat for a moment. Then it hit me like one ton of self-realization bricks.

“OCTOPUS JUGGLING! What?” Amazingly, I’d found the one response able to confuse me within my own mind. And in a rare state of sobriety nonetheless! And that, even more so than juggling several octopus, was enough to entertain me. Why is everyone in a dissatisfied state of immobility?

Friends, learn to become amused by yourself. Find ways to break a bad cycle of day-in-day-out rigidity that will eventually leave you in a state of live rigor mortis. Weening down your dependence on Jon Stewart is probably a good first step. Weening down your dependence on your friends is an excellent second step. Of course step three is enjoying life, and regularly reading this blog.

They are all connected to each other. In a circle, in a hoop that never ends. Pocahontas, bitches.

Thinker St. James
Endocrinologist (License Pending)


This! Is! Alaska!

July 8, 2008

Fishing for crabs in the Bering Sea, under the craziest conditions possible by nature. Are you fucking kidding me? This Deadliest Catch show clearly exhibits the indomitable norseman in the hearts of all Alaskans. And its even got Bon Jovi’s “Dead or Alive” as its theme song; how clever is that!

I appreciate the shows display of honest heroism. The call of the wild beckons, but these days, who answers? These crazy bearded decedents of Thor, that’s who. While the other 49 states wait in line for Taco Bell, these warriors endure nearly freezing to death for 13 hours a day. While getting pelted with ice cold seawater. And nearly falling overboard every five minutes with the rough waves pushing their ship towards capsizing. These guys should have iron helmets and shields with dragons on them.

How many people do you know in your life that could possibly be an Alaskan King Crab fisherman? I myself only know a select handful of people who could rise to the epic call of the Flokennhorne (which may or may not be an actual instrument used to signify bravery). I don’t even believe that I, the most grandiose, most promixa centauri of all living humanity could answer the awe-inspiring Flokennhorne summons (as I believe DWC [Drinking While Crabfishing] is a misdemeanor in waters governed by Alaska). Think about that next time you’re snuggling up with your douchenozzle boyfriend Johnny after a rollicking six minutes of boisterously unpleasant sexual intercourse, sister. Would Johnny be scraping ice off his ballsack in the middle of the perfect storm, laughing in death’s face like a swashbuckling maverick with nothing to lose?! The answer is no, Claire. That’s also the answer to “is he special?”, “should a give my heart to this man?”, and “if we decided to get married, do you think he’d stop selling ecstasy?”

As Thinker St. James, a man who thinks more highly of himself than he does of most major world leaders, I tip my feathered bowler cap to the men, men and younger men of the USS Kickass: The Alaskan King Crab fishermen.

Alaska. I wonder what it’s like in Alaska. All I know of Alaska is The Iditarod (tracked that bitch in 5th grade; big ups to Ms. Johnson’s class). Oh, and hockey. And those crazy remote research facilities that serve some sort of geological purpose. It’d be nice to be in one of those little bases, but have it be a totally sweet pad with a fireplace and a polar bearskin rug. You’d have to have a hot research assistant though; the Alaskan tundra is a hard place to pick up chicks, I’ve heard.

Alaska also has periods of time where it is complete darkness for months at a time (something I learned from Steve Niles). I wonder if there are seasonal nightclubs that are open 24-hours during those times. People could be dancing to disco music at four o’clock in the afternoon! Isn’t that a world we’ve all dreamed about?

Mystery, Alaska: that’s like a movie, right?

And I’ve also heard that there is a lot of marijuana in Alaska, yet they still voted against the framework of legalization. Being a stoner in Alaska must be terrible: leaving a lighter in your car results in a 10-layer suit of freeze-resistant clothing. And no pot dealer is taking out the snowmobile at two in morning to go deliver an eighth of kush to you across a twelve-mile frozen lake. Though they are neighbors with those crazy Canadians and their scientifically modified hyperweed, so who knows! That’s Alaska for ya, baby.

I’d like to end this post by saying Alaska. Fuck Yeah. Today!

Unicorns aren’t real.

May 29, 2008

So I’m talking with a friend of mine about the usual array of subjects: kidney beans, Venetian blinds, flamenco dancing. Randomly we began talking about unicorns (which, if you didn’t know, apparently don’t exist). This friend adamantly proclaimed that unicorns, like the Loch Ness Monster and Sasquatch, are completely real and scientifically documented.

After scouring dozens of journals and library databases, and contacting Dr. Heinrich von Deitts (Austria’s leading Zoologist), I concluded that my friend was probably just really stoned and most likely didn’t even realize he was speaking when he asserted that unicorns exist. I tried my best to forget the conversation (and subsequently wasted hours of pointless research) altogether. However, while playing a spirited round of polo last week, I once again began to contemplate the nature of unicorns.

It was then that I realized that unicorns really don’t exist. I mean, I was already pretty sure due to my long conversation with Dr. von Deitts, but it was during the polo match that I became fully convinced. And my main reason for this assertion is this: you cannot put a horn on an animal and then claim that it’s a totally new creature.

Look, I don’t particularly like horses. I used to fucking hate them, but now I work with a few and have learned to appreciate a number of their character traits. I can tolerate horses and at the very least, I wish them no ill will. So when a perfectly normal horse is completely devalued by some douchebag implanting a horn on it’s forehead and calling him by some made-up name, I take a certain level of offense.

Why is the horse the only lucky animal to get a horn slapped on its face, thus magically transforming it into something it’s not? I want a unicat, or a badgercorn! How about a mongoosicorn? Or a unipelican? The horse should be used for respectable purposes like the circus and field warfare; this horrid exploitation for the purpose of selling stickers and school binders has got to stop!

Speaking of horse exploitation, anyone remember Horace, the horse from the old Disney black and white shorts that mysteriously disappeared around the early 70’s? While Mickey Mouse had Minnie Mouse and Donald Duck had Daisy Duck, Horace the Horse had Clarabelle the Cow. What the fuck?

Some things are strange. Some things are weird. Some things don’t exist. Unicorns are one of those things.

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!

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.


February 23, 2008

I really hate being awake at 5:30 in the a.m. When I’ve got work at 8:30. I hate my (very temporary) job, I hate that I’ll be unemployed in a month, and at this very moment, I hate that the only thing on TV is Roseanne.

I really hate Roseanne. Like, the woman, yeah I definitely hate her. I think that when I stand before the devil at the gates of hell, her voice will sound a lot like Roseanne’s. But I hate the show a lot more than the woman for a number of reasons. One is the misuse of John Goodman; sure I can’t separate him from Walter Sobchak, but I suppose that’s sort of the point. Another is the fact that I really don’t find the show particularly entertaining. It’s a lot like Home Improvement, but less humorous (I mean, at least those writers had Al Borlan to work with…and Wilson, I’ve always really loved Wilson).

But the thing I hate the most about Roseanne (again the show, not the woman) is the bleakness of the American landscape it displays. The basis of the comedy is founded on the sadness of humanity. And though this is not exclusive to Roseanne, I take serious issue with marriage-related humor. The sad depravity and complete lack of happiness that is a sitcom marriage, only held together by the floss-thin strings of moralistic “oh, you make me miserable, but I still love you.” If the jokes are written in, and the commercial breaks are scheduled, and marriage is STILL that unbearable, what chance do the normal, unfunny, regular people have? There is no resolution at the top of the hour.

And with that brand of humor that revolves around everyday life, we’ve got the kids. Oh the kids. God, all sitcom parents hate their kids. And all sitcom kids are fucking terrible human beings. And much like their marriages, when the credits roll, everything is chocked up to “as much as I hate/don’t understand/wish I never had you, you’re my kid and I still love you.” Is this the foundation of functionality? Is this the reality we want to mirror to the society that consumes this bullshit? The fact that these sitcoms are supposed to be about average people is fucking crazy.

If I’ve learned anything this morning, at 5:56 (with an alarm that will be sounding in exactly 4 minutes), it’s that Roseanne is exactly, 100%, to the letter, everything I do not want my life to become. I don’t want to hate my spouse. I don’t want to hate my children. I will not give in to this insanely morose construct that is the average American life.

I apologize to all 3 readers of this blog; I know this one isn’t all that funny. As I’m pretty sure I know them all personally, I’ll send them an email or something. Anyway, the point is: don’t give up the fight for happiness. If I repeat that phrase, perhaps I’ll commit to it.

And fuck Roseanne, and her show.

If Not Me, What Customers Are You Servicing?

February 9, 2008

Dear Cisco Customer Service,

You have no reason to be angry at me god damn it.

Yes, I got drunk and called your automated comments and concerns line. First of all, what else is new? I get drunk all the fucking time. I’m drunk right now, and its not even 2:30 in the afternoon. Secondly, it is your product that got me drunk in the first place. You think I wanted to get drunk on luscious, fruitfully delicious Cisco brand Strawberry bum wine? OF COURSE I DID! Who asked you to print the customer service number on the label?!

So I called you and said I was a man named Wendell who’d drank four bottles of Cisco while listening to Chuck Berry and not giving a damn. SO WHAT?! Did I not thoroughly express the fact that I find your product delectable? Did I not say “I’d gladly surrender a kidney to a black market organ trader for a lifetime supply of Cisco”? I believe I did, yet instead of coming back with a legitimate offer for one of my fully-functional kidneys, you ask me to cease further calls to your service center.

Hey FUCK YOU Cisco customer service! If I want to indulge in your strawberry, peach, or even perhaps your passion fruit liquor, and then invite you to party with a man named Wendell, I am going to do just that! And if that man is also (coincidentally) a heavy drinker, what’re you gunna do about it? Ask me to cease further calls to your service center? Hm…

Why do you even have a customer service number? Do people need operating instructions for the twist-off cap? Do people go into such severe coma’s drinking this crazy shit that they grab the phone and dial you up to chat? They can’t chat, Cisco customer service: they’re in fucking comas! I feel betrayed and, at the very least, completely not-serviced.

In short, you can stop me from making the call, but you can NEVER stop me from making the purchase. The purchase of sweet, mouth-watering Cisco-brand Cisco’s Strawberry Cisco. Or Peach. Seriously, I love your product, and pushing me away is only making me want you that much more. I have to go now, the librarian heard me yelling.

Still Drunk from this Morning,

Wendell St. Thinker,
Homeless and Lovin’ It!

Welcome to Another Rendition of Thunderdome!

February 5, 2008

Welcome, welcome, welcome.

Welcome to what all the fuss is about. Welcome to the talk of the town. A warm welcome especially to the cool kids (but definitely not you, fatty). Welcome to the Forklifts Unlimited blog. I don’t know what “blog” means, but my friends assure me that it’s a great way to get laid.

Our aim here at FU is mainly to entertain, but we also realize that entertainment isn’t what you’re after. You’re on the internet. You want sex. Steamy, graphic, socially deplorable SEX. Hell sailor, SO DO WE! So, interspliced with the so-called “entertainment” of the blog, we promise lots and lots kinky, frankly disgusting acts of a blatantly sexual nature.

But WAIT, modern forward-thinking human! You’re smart! You keep up with world events! You got high and discovered the true message of Dark Side of the Moon! You like subtext, subtlety, and deeper meanings that dwell beyond the surface. We know, we got high too! Thus, the filthy, eye-popping sex we promise will be 100% metaphorical. This allows each reader to find fulfillment in any sentence they should so choose. I found it in this sentence I’m currently typing, and blew like Old Faithful (ironically while typing the words “Old Faithful”). The ecstasy was incalculable. I have high hopes for this blog.

Basically folks, we want you to laugh. And cream your shorts. Do both regularly, and with great fervor. Do both while reading this blog (especially my posts, which will undoubtedly cause you to do so involuntarily). Do both with growing confidence, and growing strength in the air. Do both in the beaches, and on the landing grounds. Do both because god damn it, Winston Churchill commands it to be, and that motherfucker hated Nazis like no other human being possibly could. You don’t like Nazis…do you? JIZZ YOURSELF YOU COMMIE BASTARD! (No homo.)

Enjoy Forklifts Unlimited. Seriously, do it or I’ll fucking find you. I’ve had a hard couple of months. I need this.

All Due Love and Even Less Respect,

Thinker St. James
Forklifts Unlimited CEO and Co-founder