Pancake City

Try to guess.

In their next generation of cameras, HP will allow you to automatically insert a photo of Brad Pitt or Angelina Jolie every time you take a photo of your cousin.

I won’t be posting much, if at all, for the next week. I’m moving this Sat. (don’t know where yet–gg relaxed move) and don’t see myself having the time.

“…I could eat a horse!”

I’m not impressed when people say that. Have you ever had horse before? I have. It’s delicious. You add some barbeque sauce and it’s a giant McRib.

I’d be more impressed if someone said, “I’m so hungry, I could eat a wad of napkins!” Napkins taste terrible. I know. I tried one. These two Golden Retrievers I walk love paper products. Every time they see a crumpled napkin or used tissue on the ground, I have to plant my feet to stop from being dragged across the street towards it. One day, I poured some ketchup on a napkin and decided to see what all the fuss is about.

Know what it tasted like? Like a napkin with ketchup on it. Stupid dogs. If anyone tells me they’re so hungry they can get a napkin, I’m buying them a burger. Or, when they come back on the menu, a McRib. Which will be as soon as McDonalds can get some more horses.

I got really excited when I heard on NPR today that cinematographer Sven Nightfist died. I’ve never heard of him, and I couldn’t understand why as he has the Coolest Name Ever. (True side note: I’ve tried a variety of methods, from deadly serious to comical, to get responses to my email inquiries about rooms for rent, all will little success. My luck did not change with my latest technique: introducing myself as “Phineas HornBlower, Pirate Extraordinaire”.)

Anyway, I couldn’t believe that someone had a name that awesome. If I were Death, I couldn’t kill someone with that cool of a name. Unless I also had a cool name, like Death Rocket Hands the III, esq.

Yet when I got home and searched for “Sven Nightfist” on Google to find a news story on his death (yes, many of the posts I write are supported with a modicum of research) nothing relevant turned up. My first thought: Am I spelling Sven wrong? Is it Swen?

I later found out that I got the boring part right and the interesting part wrong. That happens a lot with me. His true name: Sven Nykvist.

I want to find an audiofile of a newscaster reading his last name because it sounded exactly like Nightfist. In fact, if this guy was so great, why didn’t he change his name to Nightfist himself? The dots were all there. All he had to do was draw the lines.

Well, the Swedes disappointed me again. From Swiss Miss “Hot” Chocolate (there’s not even liquid in the pouches!) to Swedish “fish”, it’s one lie after another with these people.

Here is an odd story of Hugo Chavez, the President of Venezuela, calling President Bush “the devil” on the floor of the U.N. General Assembly. Afterwards, Chavez pulled down his pants, waved his rear at Bush, and said, “You can kiss my brown ass.”

Okay, Chavez kept his pants on, but if you are going to call the leader of a nation “the devil” in front of the leaders of almost every other country in the planet, your pantaloons might as well have wings because they’re flying off soon.

The article points out that Chavez has called Bush names before, but it was “Mr. Devil”. Now, Chavez is dispensing with the formalities.

Mr. Devil does have a nice ring to it. Sounds like something an orphan would say. “Mr. Devil, can I have some more porridge?” And the devil would smile and say, “Well, the devil wouldn’t give you more porridge, but maybe Mr. Devil can help a young, polite man like yourself out.”

Can you understand how crazy this is? It’s like a far-left version of Ann Coulter got elected president of a country. Calling a president a devil in a public forum is something a crackhead would say. How is the President supposed to respond? “You called me what, bitch?”

Whoever gave Chavez the key to the liquor cabinet in his room is going to be fired. Chavez is going to wake up the next day, hungover and groggy, and get a call from his frantic aide: “I said what? Wow. Really? They knew I was drunk, right?”

Remember “cool beans”? How did it come to mean “sounds good”? Most people, when asked if they want cool beans, aren’t excited by the proposition. Beans and rice: now we’re moving in the right direction. But plain, cool beans? Even a vegan would ask, “Well, can you at least warm them up? They’re friggin’ beans.”

In fact, if I like something, I’m skipping the whole legume group and moving to a more exciting place on the pyramid, as in “every place except the bean part”. Even spinach is cooler than beans. At least spinach has an aura of danger about it now. If beans want to retain their place in pop culture, they’re going to have to kill someone. And not while still in a can. That’s too easy. They’re going to need to lodge themselves in a windpipe at the minimum.

You are on notice, beans. Unless you start tasting good all by yourself, things are going to go downhill.

Talk Like a Pirate Day!

I don’t know if this episode aired yet, but apparantly a pirate family appeared on ABC’s Wife Swap.

There is this young woman on Flickr, Sophie, who consistently posts the most wonderful pictures. It’s sick how talented she is. You should check her out.

Last weekend, I went to the Renaissance Fair. Had a great time (photos of people you’ve never met here!). The fried cheese–delicious. Best food item at the Renaissance Fair not on a stick, and I dare say it would provide a tough challenge against the whole array of stick-based foods, including Cheesecake on a Stick, Grapes on a Stick, and Stick on a Stick.

The only down part is that, with all of the visual and aural stimuli created by the performers, craft shops, and uniquely-dressed visitors, I became momentarily distracted and lost my backpack.

Version 2: I was drunk and lost it between the time we left the pub and went to throw knives. (In a layout that doesn’t make sense now that I am sober, the knife-throwing game is right around the corner of the pub.)

The lost-and-found didn’t have it, so I called the office on Monday to see if someone had returned it. Here is the exact conversation I had:

ME: “Hi. I lost my backpack last Saturday, and I was wondering if someone turned it in.”
LOST N FOUND: “We did find a few backpacks on Saturday. What color is it?”
ME: “It’s an olive-green backpack.”
LOST N FOUND: “One moment.” [puts me on hold, comes back a minute later.] “What’s in the backpack?”

(It’s obvious to me he wants to make sure it’s mine, lest I am a con artist trying to pull of the ol’ “Backpack Switcheroo”)

ME: “There’s a sunglasses case, a camera pouch, and ½ a bottle of Arizona Ice Tea. But it’s lemonade inside, not ice tea.”

LOST N FOUND: “Hmmm, mmmm. And who made the backpack?”

Excuse me? How many olive-green backpacks with a sunglasses case, camera pouch, and ½ bottle of lemonade-filled Arizona Ice Tea inside them do you have?

ME: “Jeez, I don’t know. Jansport?”

LOST N FOUND: “That’s right. It’s yours.”

What would have happened if I had given the wrong brand name? What if I slipped and said “Trail and Country” or the “Just Give Me My Mother-Fucking Backpack Already” company? I am probably better off not knowing.

Anyway, they agreed to mail it back to me. I got it back today.

You know what’s still in the backpack? THE LEMONADE. They didn’t even empty the bottle. They mailed me back my ½ bottle of week-old lemonade. And paid the postage for it too.

Uh. thanks? I almost feel obligated to drink it now. Almost.

My roommates will like it though.

This is hilarious.

Astronomers Find Distant, Fluffy Planet
Astronomers are just making stuff up now. “Yeah, there’s like this planet that’s made of cotton candy, but it’s really far away, so only we can see it. And the planet likes astronomers a lot and says we’re the coolest and he’s our best friend so you should stop making fun of us.

Pluto is Now Just a Number: 134340
Why don’t we just put Pluto in an internment camp while we’re at it, you heartless bastards?

It’s my Mom’s birthday today. My Mom is so great that when my friends meet her, they try to get her to adopt them. She’s kind, generous, and has a big heart, even for psychotic cats, particularly a black one that no one else except my sister likes because the cat has crawlwed up from the depth of Hades to demand tuna…or else. Happy Birthday, Mom.

I’ve been responding to several group housing ads a day with little luck so far. One of my roommates said he has been getting a 1 in 10 response to his emails. I told him, “Well, that’s what happens when you smell” but that was hypocritical of me to say as I’m getting the same ratio of responses. And I haven’t showered in a week.

I got tired of sending a personalized email to each person, so I wrote script to scan the ad and incorporate the info into an automated response. Example:

“Hi, I’?m JASON. I saw your ad on CRAIGSLIST for the open room in your BUNGALOW/PLEASANTLY SIZED DWELLING. The description of your BUNGALOW/PLEASANTLY SIZED DWELLING sounds really nice. I’?ve always wanted to live in your LIVELY IN A NON-THREATENING WAY neighborhood.

It seems like we also have a lot in common. For example, I share your interest in QUIRKY HOBBY I DON’?T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT BUT SAW A PBS SPECIAL ON LAST YEAR. I never thought I’?d find someone else in the D.C. area that shares my deep-held love for MATING HABITS OF THE MANATEE.”

I walked by a car with a license plate that said, “IM GERI”. That’s the type of license plate that puts one on guard for mental retardation. If I were going to meet Geri, I wouldn’t automatically assume cranial imparement. But I would keep some candy in my pocket, just in case.

“I’m Geri!”
“Yes you are. Have a Twizzler.”

Create Your Own McDoanlds Sign (although warning: the site is annyoingly preachy.)