Daily Diatribe Archive

Diatribe of 6/7/09 - The gratuitousness of the gratuity

Those idiots at Wikipedia have it wrong yet again. Yes, out of sheer ignorance (or perhaps stupidity) they seem to believe that a gratuity (or tip if you prefer) is defined thusly: "Though by definition a tip is never legally required, and its amount is at the discretion of the patron being served." Have you ever read anything so laughable, so moronic, so utterly beyond belief? While often evil and beyond belief, I'm not referring to the automatic gratuity that's added on to the totals of large parties in restaurants. After all, that sort of makes sense if there's any sort of actual service provided (the concept of which will surely appear in a future diatribe). But what about an advertised cost, an unbelievably expensive advertised cost at that, for which a percent gratuity is added on to the total with no option to do otherwise? Well you might likely state something such as "But why isn't that just part of the original cost?" That's what you'd say if you were an idiot, but as you are not an idiot, you realize that this is how the whole bait and switch process works. You advertise the low price, and then charge that price and add on a, ahem, gratuity, to get the costs back to where you wanted them in the first place. And the argument for conducting this vile practice? The statement that makes it all okay? Why it's because "everyone else does it". Well I don't know about you, but I look forward to the day when all services will cost approximately a penny while the gratuity will determine the final cost. If nothing else, at least it will finally end the stupid debate over whether the penny should be eliminated.

Diatribe of 1/28/09 - Halogen headlights, perhaps the greatest menace facing mankind

While there are already countless articles and proposed studies to determine if it's dangerous to drive while simultaneously texting, eating a salad and counting your eyebrow hairs in the rearview mirror; an even greater driving menace faces us every day. Or perhaps that should read blinds us every night. I refer of course to those damnable halogen headlights that are showing up on more and more vehicles these days. At least I assume there's vehicles somewhere behind those glares as by the time my night vision usually returns the offending vehicle will already be a mile or more behind me. Ah, it sometimes used to be that you would flash your highbeams at a vehicle with lights that bright and oftentimes you would be rewarded with the pleasure of watching the person realize what an idiot they've been as they dim their lights. Alas, that pleasure has gone the way of so many others in that it's not worth the effort to try any more. No, because now when the highbeams are flashed at the offending vehicle they will often go from the painfully bright halogen lowbeams to their retina damaging actual highbeams. While my eyes might be able to handle the strain, the sunburn I've been getting from those lights just isn't worth the risk.

Diatribe of 12/4/08 - Customer disservice has a new spokesidiot

While I still consider the cable company to be the most inept pack of slack jawed cretins to ever disgrace the face of the earth, their hammerlock on the bottom rung of the competency ladder has recently come in to question. Who could possibly challenge the kings of incompetence? Well to give you the necessary background you need to know that for reasons of my own stupidity it turns out that I needed to replace the impeller on my pool pump. So I did what any moron would do, I went to the pool supply store to purchase a replacement. Such foolishness. It turns out that impellers are like the sands of the beach or the stars in the sky; that's right, they are open to being used as a metaphor. The particular metaphor being that they are almost infinite in their variety and that standardization is not a word that could be applied to them in even the most laughable of manners. The order complete, a week later the overpriced piece of plastic arrived and upon inserting it in to the housing I was surprised to learn that the part was the wrong size. Well how bad could it really be? Perhaps I can simply file it down in a few key spots and the earsplitting howling will cease when the pump is run. Folly has rarely before been so fully realized. But rather than return the now scarred part to the store, I instead did the research that I should have done in the first place and ordered the part on-line. Surely this will cure my ills. Surely the internet won't let me down! Another week. Another impeller that howls like the very demons of hell when I have the audacity to run the pump using an impeller that has a different part number from what I ordered. Now I'm given to understand that the correct part is on the way, but perhaps you can sense why optimism is running almost as low as the aforementioned bottom rung of the competency ladder.

Diatribe of 10/6/08 - Ike

So just what exactly would you expect to ruffle my dander in the weeks following a close call with a hurricane? The idiots that blow through intersections because there doesn't happen to be a red light? A cleanup crew that managed to crack the sidewalk out front with the heavy handed use of a debris pick-up crane? Perhaps an insurance company that says my roof doesn't need to be replaced and that a few shingles will have it as good as new? Maybe its the last of the damnable Bradford Pears from the backyard shedding the majority of its remaining limbs in a failed attack on the garage? While all of these are reasonble guesses, they would share the common trait of being wrong. No, the one thing that got my blood a-boiling like nothing else was the selfish idiocy of what I can only hope is the minority of our citizenry. From the moron that was complaining that the government still hadn't gotten them any supplies less than 36 hours after the hurricane had passed, to the buffoon who was outraged that it took over a week to get their power back on, it's the sheer self-serving idiocy of the populace that leaves me shaking my head and wondering where we went wrong as a country. It's apparent that most everyone considers themselves to be the most important person in the world and that everything should be done for them now if not sooner. Well that's just crap. Everyone should simply sit back and think about it for a moment and the truth will come to them - that truth being that I'm the most important person in the world. I couldn't put it on the web if it weren't true.

Diatribe of 7/9/08 - Better, faster, cheaper; pick any one

You might think that by purchasing a new and powerful computer with the latest and greatest version of that bloatware known as Windows, that life's problems (or at least the problems introduced by using an antiquated computer) would become a thing of the past. Well you could think that, but if you did you'd be an idiot. No, what you get by upgrading from a bug-ridden and primitve machine that was on a par with using stone knives and bear skins for your computer needs, is a machine that will deliver the system errors and bugs to you in a faster and more efficient manner. When it's not giving you the good old BSOD for having the audacity for bringing it out of standby, or asking you for confirmation before every single action can be completed (Are you sure you want to move your mouse 0.2 inches? < Y > < N > < Reboot >), it's dropping the internet connection every few minutes. But you know, perhaps I'm being too hard on the folks in Redmond. After all, a machine that isn't powered or connected to the internet runs pretty much zero risk of contracting some sort of malware or virus. So let me be one of the first to say; way to go Microsoft, you've finally found a sure-fire way to get those reliability numbers up. On an unrelated note, does anyone have a Linux version for home use that they'd like to recommend?

Diatribe of 4/2/08 - Popeye said it best, I yam what I yam

I've always been intrigued by a quote attributed to that Socrates dude who was in Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, An unexamined life is not worth living. Since self examination is something that doesn't come naturally to the male of the species, I'm curious as to the best method to set about figuring out who or what the heck I am. Research has led me to believe that there are three distinct schools of thought that would best guide me through this process. By simply using the time and date of my birth and appying the science [cough cough] of Astrology, it should be easy to readily figure out just exactly what kind of person I am. After all, it's when you were born, not how you grew up that determines what kind of person you are. Unless of course you think Astrology is bunk and you instead subscribe to the science [cough cough] of Numerology. After all, it's the makeup of the letters in your name that determines what sort of person you are, not some random alignment of the heavenly bodies. Unless of course you're the type of person that subscribes to the one true science that tells you everything you need to know about yourself. Yup, you guessed it, the Chinese Zodiac is what really tells you everything you need to know about yourself. Not that I consider it to be any more of a science than the others, but it at least has the distinct advantage of providing you the opportunity to have a decent meal while you're looking at the restaurant placemat. So off to the Kung Pao Chicken and spicy egg roll, self-discovery awaits! Or at least some serious halitosis.

Diatribe of 2/4/08 - It's not that guys are unsanitary...

The health newsletters at work seem to be telling me that I should basically be washing my hands before, during, and after every meal; before and after touching any inanimate object such as a keyboard or a mouse; and before or after I touch any other part of my physical being, such as my nose. (Get your minds out of the gutter you perverts!) So it would seem that if people were really following this advice we'd have a society that would be perpetually lathered to the elbow, huddled over sinks of tepid water and slowly rubbing their hands away to nothingness. So what is it that keeps people from following this advice? The sheer idiocy of it? The fact that no one has the time or inclination to wash their hands every six minutes? While these are in fact very good reasons, the one thing that is guaranteed to keep people (well, men anyway) away from the sink is the hovering horror that is the restroom attendant. Yeah, like guys want to give a guy a buck or two for handing them a paper towel that they could have just as easily gotten from the dispenser themselves. It's not enough that we're slightly creeped out by this guy sitting there watching the urinals, but to feel compelled to pay for this "service" is too much to bear! So the next time you see a guy spill beer all over himself and simply laugh it off while dabbing himself with a few dozen bar napkins, don't think of him as someone who doesn't care that his hands are covered with drying beer, think of him as a guy that considers the alternative to be much worse.

Diatribe of 11/18/07 - Who will weep for the blue agave?

Some of the downsides of the surge in the use of ethanol to replace fossil fuels are well known. The climb in corn prices is driving up the price of basic food staples in many parts of the world. It's thought that there's been an increase in the rate of deforestation to make more land available to plant corn. And last but not least, higher corn prices are impacting feed prices which in turn drives up the cost of producing beef, poultry and milk. While some might consider one or all of these to be potential tragedies in the making, the greatest tragedy of all receives little to no attention from a seemingly blind fourth estate. I'm speaking of course of the fact that fields of the precious blue agave plant are being torched and replaced with corn. Blue agave, the precious source of the fiery liquid gold, tequila, is being supplanted by corn throughout Mexico as farmers are reaping a short term cash gain at the expense of this most important of plants. Oh sure, some might say that limiting greenhouse gasses and cutting down on the rate of oil consumption are important and must be addressed now, but when the price of a margarita is equal to that of a fine bottle of scotch, then we'll truly know the true meaning of the word 'tragedy'.

Diatribe of 7/23/07 - The desert's looking better all the time

I can't say that I ever really understood the philosphy of those people that want to pave the earth, until now that is. Oh no, it's not the torrents of rain and the inumerable brackish puddles that have the mosquitoes buzzing with glee that has me down. And it's not my crappy lawn that resembles the Moab where I want it to grow and a tropical rainforest where I don't that has me wanting to replace it all with pure sweet asphalt. It's those arboreal devils that have me wanting to napalm the lot of them and start from scratch. You'd think that it would be enough that the palms stab me with their spikes, that the live oaks bury me with their leaves while strangling off everything else, and that the plantains attack the fence. But no, a damnable bradford pear has to lose half of it's trunk for no apparent reason and crush the few flowers I hadn't yet managed to kill while also attacking what little of the fence the plantains hadn't gotten to. So while I've never had reason to believe that huorns might actually be real, now I have to wonder. As I haven't seen any Ents in these parts recently, I don't see anyone stopping me and my flamethrower.

Diatribe of 4/18/07 - The ultimate commitment

Hey buddy. Hey, you. No, not you. Not someone who might actually have come to this web site on purpose, I'm trying to get the attention of that guy over there who accidentally got here because his bizarre fetish apparently involves the words cretin, imbecile and moron. Buddy! What's that? Why do I want his attention? Well I want to attempt to explain to him that the little ripping sound associated with opening a vial of deadly poison (more commonly referred to as a packer of low calorie sweetener) is the sound of him committing himself to the entire fargin' packet. That's right buddy, when you rip open that packet it's up to you to either finish off the contents in there entirety or else use whatever brain-size amount you feel is adequate and to then throw the remainder away. 'Cuz let me fill you in on something buddy. While I might also be violently opposed to waste in its many manifest forms, what I'm even more opposed to is getting my hands covered by the contents of the loose packet you so thoughtfully left behind. So give me a break buddy and either learn to shoulder the Herculean task of taking the remainder of that packet with you, or else give up the sweetener altogether. Your body and I will both thank you.

Diatribe of 3/4/07 - The longest distance between two points is through the valet

Wikipedia seems to refer to Valet Parking as a service whereby an establishment parks your vehicle for you rather than utilizing self parking. What a quaint, albeit horribly outdated, concept. As anyone who has recently gone to any sort of semi-upscale establishment can tell you, valet parking is an alleged service whose sole purpose is to extract even greater amounts of cash from gullible patrons. While it might possibly be true that this service is actually that, a service somewhere (perhaps in a parallel universe), in this particular reality it's a system where all of the relatively close parking spots are reserved by the establishment. So even if you were to commit the heinous crime of visiting said establishment at off peak hours you still will have to walk a block to your destination if you're the kind of rabble who doesn't want to pay to have your car driven by a smelly drug fiend a total of twelve feet. Why it's almost enough to make public transportation seem like a reasonable thing to subject myself to! But there's no point in taking it that far, if people started doing something as inconsiderate as that then the establishment would likely start charging for air. And I for one don't want to be the cause of someone being suffocated just because they forgot their wallet. Unless of course that person invented the current incarnation of valet parking. That would be more than fine with me.

Diatribe of 8/20/06 - Is this what they meant by "Taking it to the Street"?

Thousands of years of human evolution has finally brought us to the point we oh so desperately have needed for some time now, bratty kids are intentionally trying to get themselves killed. And not through the expected methods of extreme sports or dangerous drugs, but rather through the time honored tradition of playing in traffic. While some might say that this could be an example of kids somehow listening to their exhausted sires when instructed to "go play in the street", no one with an IQ above that of a can of cream corn could honestly believe that teens might actually hear their parents. Rather, it's evolution at work as their aren't any natural predators to cull the herds of cell phone yapping, big pants wearing, body pierced youth that clutter our malls, and (for reasons that aren't terribly clear) city streets. The only possible explanation is that inborn instincts are at work to make these young slackers feel they must be fender fodder, at least if the streets of my neighborhood are any indication. Oh sure, some might say that today's brat is tomorrow's tax-paying, church-going, well-adjusted wage slave, and that lounging in the streets is just a phase, but is this a risk you're truly willing to take?

Diatribe of 6/6/06 - Celebrity Spokesdroids

So just what is that makes someone a great actor? Is it the ability to lay it on in thick steaming layers in what is somehow a very convincing manner? For my money that's pretty much the gist of it though you might not pick up the same advice from any of the major acting academies. After all, they could hardly separate the suckers from their cash by simply advising them to get out there and let the bullshit freely flow. But getting back to whatever point I'm trying to make, actors are noted for their ability to, let's face it, lie in a convincing manner. So why in the heck are we regularly accosted by images of these buffoons pitching useless crap at us in every form of media? Just because some guy was able to memorize some lines written by someone else and recite them in the manner that someone else dictates he's some sort of genius? Give me a break. But worse yet, why in the hell are we buying the crap their shovelling? Why does the prattling of a celebrity pitch-droid have any affect on our buying decisions? Heck if I know. If however if I ever get the lobotomy that will allow me to understand how marketing works I'll surely get back to you.

Diatribe of 3/12/06 - Aiming for a poor design

While it should be easy for me to take it as a given that most industries and service organizations aren't aware that anyone over the height of 5'9" exists, I still somehow manage to be regularly annoyed by manifestations of this principle. You'd think I'd be used to it by now. But no, a particularly blatant instance of this phenomenon came in to being at a local bar, Molly's that once again has me reaching for the blood pressure medication. This establishment, long known for their postage-stamp sized men's room, would often provide a source of hilarity for many women who would be delighted by the sight of a line out the men's room door while their own door remained line free. Alas, equal rights were dealt a crippling blow when an addition was built on to the men's room that added four urinals to the mix. While the tittering of the fairer sex may have been put to rest and no longer accosts my ears as I make my way to the facilities all is not right with the world. Apparently a team of midgets was contracted to add these urinals as the porcelain tops are less than three feet off the floor while the bases are near floor level. I'll leave the physics of the situation to your oh so fertile imaginations and simply state that midget contractors might not be your best choice when adding plumbing to your bar.

Diatribe of 1/02/06 - Methinks he doth protest too much

Sheesh people (or perhaps I should say persons as 'people' makes it seem like this web page has more readers than it really has), get off my back already! This is what I'd be saying if anyone were to actually harass me about getting a new diatribe out at the snail's pace I've been managing lately. But it's not as if this should come as some sort of surprise or anything. After all, it's right there in the fine print on my homepage:
Yes the title says daily, but Weekly, or more accurately, whenever I feel like it, just didn't seem to flow as well.
But as I understand it, terrible experiments in genetic engineering are underway (experiments too horrible to contemplate) that show the potential for bringing near-human intelligence to the common snail. I for one look forward to such a day when I can outsource my writing to one of these slimers and my diatribes truly will be written and posted at a snail's pace! Of course you shouldn't believe everything you read. After all, I also read somewhere that much of what you find on the internet is either errors of ignorance or blatant fabrications in an attempt to mislead the unsuspecting reader to in to believing that some idiot's nonsensical blatherings are actually true. So be careful out there, you never know when you're going to run across subject matter of that sort.

Diatribe of 10/23/05 - Magical Electric Elves; Fact or Fiction?

I hang my head in almost near-shame for once referring to the idiots that don't understand that a blinking red light should be treated as a stop sign as being "gnat for brains" when in fact these paticular oafs are Nobel Laureates in comparison to another member of the moronic motoring masses. But rather than just come right out and point out their sheer idiocy, let me ask you a few simple questions. Are you aware that "electric lights" require something called "electricity" to operate? If the power is obviously out in an area, are you going to assume that there are magical electric elves available to power specific electrical devices? And lastly, does the absence of a red or yellow light on a traffic light automatically mean it's safe to proceed at reckless speed through an intersection? Well if you figured out where I was going with those questions then count yourself as one of those apparent few that I would not be afraid to meet at an intersection after a hurricane has touched on an area. If you had difficulty answering any of the above questions then I suggest you get yourself on the waiting list for a brain donor (or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof made of silly putty). You aren't going to necessarily do better, but it's hard to believe that replacing your defective gray matter is going to leave you any worse off.

Diatribe of 9/15/05 - Checking isn't just for hockey any more

Few things are as amazing as how instinct can make creatures unthinkingly do the same thing year after year, century after century, eon after eon. Behaviors so ingrained in the very DNA that they are done without thought, without the barest of synaptical firings to call forth the action. It boggles the rational mind! But rather than the noble salmon I of course refer to the doddering semi-humans that somehow unerringly pick the narrowest point in the hallway to conduct their vapid conversations. Imagine if you will a 500-yard long hallway 20 feet wide with one tiny point where it narrows to mere 6 feet. Instinctive behaviors that the morons aren't even aware of guarantee that the most likely stopping point for any group will be that one point. And what orientation will they assume relative to each other? Will they stand to one side so that the flow will only be restricted to a tiny extent? HA! Of course they'll stand across from each other. It would be a betrayal to their very DNA to do otherwise. Well I don't know exactly what can be done to cull this trait from the family of man, but if hip checks into the walls can be shown to help even a small amount I'm willing to do my part. Maybe even if they aren't.

Diatribe of 7/17/05 - I'm just making sure my brake lights work

So which type of moronic driver really is the worst? Is it the imbecile that cruises along blissfully unaware that their turn signal has been on for the last 37 miles? Or could it be the cretin that doesn't realize that their vehicle even has a turn signal and is often confused by the oddly blinking lights on those other vehicles? While these are indeed fine examples of the lobotomized fools that make up the driving public they really aren't the floaters of the turd world that are our nation's byways. No, the worst of the lot isn't some moron unfamiliar with the purpose of the turn signal but rather the idiot that rides their brakes. These always braking but rarely slowing dunderheads are the wolf-crying liars of the driving world. The reason I say wolf-cryer is because about the time you figure out that they really aren't braking but are just wearing down their brake pads, they finally do brake out of some perverse sense of ill-timing and if you don't rear end them it's only because the sheer joy of doing so is something you won't allow yourself. But take heart my friends. No really, follow them home and rip out their still beating hearts and show it to them and laugh maniacally while doing so. It's nothing less than they deserve.
< Disclaimer> I couldn't think of any way to end this diatribe so I went for the cheap laugh. I actually do not advocate the evisceration of this particulary brand of meatheaded motorist. Unless of course you really want to.</Disclaimer>

Diatribe of 5/30/05 - There aren't enough kids around with magnifying glasses if you ask me

Those of you living in northern climes are often jealous of those of living in the south with our mild winters and snowfalls so rare people actually want the damn white stuff to fall. After all, what's the big deal, it'll all be gone in a few hours anyway. Oh sure, we have to put up with the occasional swarm of Africanized (or Killer, if you prefer) Bees, but what's an occasional killing swarm of insects if it means you don't have to drive on ice-slick roads? Ah, but there is one particular nuisance that you of the north don't have to deal with: Fire Ants. Now before you start thinking of tiny little mites that have surely been exaggerated by a sensationalizing media, let me inform you that the media more than likely underplays the horrific nature of these spawn of Satan. You don't think the pesticide companies put "Controls Fire Ants" in big print on their lawn products just for the heck of it, do you? Heck, after my latest bout with the little bastards I'm considering paving the whole lawn. Oh sure, they'll still find a way to occupy what used to be my lawn but at least now I'll have a chance to see them coming.

Diatribe of 4/18/05 - Instant ain't quite as instant as it used to be

Instant. A word that brings to mind things such as instant coffee, instant messaging, instant breakfast and instant hangover (tequila). What it no longer brings to mind is something that was once known as an Instant Winner game. Gather round kids and I'll tell you of a time when you could open up a bottle of pop (and that's what we called it, dadgummit!), look inside the cap, and based on some cryptic code we'd immediately know whether we'd won some less than fabulous prize such as a another bottle of the gut rot that we already didn't want to drink. Yes, believe it or not we didn't have to enter a 17 digit code in to a web site while simultaneously signing up to receive even more vile spam, all in a misguided effort to learn that no, we hadn't just won the trip for two to Sudan (chances of winning 1 in 18 billion) let alone another bottle of gut rot. Then again, maybe the current system isn't so bad. After all, when was the last time a web site caused you to pour a dribble of liquid down the front of your shirt while idiotically trying to look at its bottom (DON'T ANSWER THAT! I DON'T WANT TO KNOW! PERVERT!).

Diatribe of 3/6/05 - Tejano, it's not just for Cinco de Mayo any more

While the crap that those darn kids listen to these days has been ridiculed far and wide as the talentless drivel that it is, far too little time is spent ridiculing the talentless drivel that my generation listened to. And you know what? If it kept me from having to listen to it once again, even to mock it, then that was just fine by me. But alas, an event has come to pass like an above average sized kidney stone so that I can remain blissfully ignorant no more. Clear Channel Communications, in their infinite wisdom, decided that the seventeen tejano stations serving the area was somehow inadequate so they converted one of the five rock stations. Eh, no big deal as I loathed that particular station's insipid morning show anyway. But woe is me as the loss of that show wasn't the only change that took place. In an effort to capture the displaced listeners of the defunct station a couple of other stations expanded their formats and the one I like to listen to apparently lost the coin flip. For you see, where I had once been blissfully Axl free I now find myself accosted by regular infestations of Guns 'N Roses. Ugh. Then again, maybe tejano isn't really so bad after all.

Diatribe of 1/24/05 - How many cubits are there in a furlong?

While there are nearly an infinite number of evil trends in the marketplace, a paricularly insidious one has seen such an explosion in popularity of late that it demands to be lampooned. I refer of course to the increasingly complicated pricing structures employed at the grocery store. In an attempt to hide their ever increasing prices retailers would often list things as being "2 for $5.00" or "3 for $6.00". The reasons for doing this of course were twofold. The first would be to hide the true cost of the item from the brain dead morons that make up our populace who can't divide 5 by 2 without the aid of a calculator and someone to operate it, and the other is to try and trick these same dolts in to thinking they had to buy more than one of the listed item. But as this wasn't nearly complex enough as now the common way to list the cost is to make the math more complicated. "3 for $5.25" or "5 for $7.23" grace our store shelves in an effort to ensure that everyone will grow to hate math. But where will it end? "e for $4.18³"? Perhaps it will all be done in square roots? Ah, but that's where those of us who know math will have them! I for one look forward to the day when that pizza listed for the square root of $16 can not only be thought of as costing $4.00, but also -$4.00! So bring it on Kroger! I vaguely recall some high school math, and I'm not afraid to use it!

Diatribe of 12/31/04 - You WILL watch our ads!

When television stations first started putting their annoying little symbols and call letters in the corner of the screen, I thought to myself, "Boy is that annoying, but surely it can't get any worse." It's idiotic thoughts like this that make me realize just what a blind fool I can be. And just how have they made it worse? Why with those animated commercials that will often cover a third of the program you're attemping to watch. Surely you've seen and been annoyed by them. A large animated graphic, often with sound, that hypes some insipid program that generally will be coming up next. A graphic for a program that you not only have no interest in watching, but is so horrible in of itself that it forces you to change the channel for a few seconds as it beats the alternative of stabbing yourself in the eye with a triple-A battery scavenged from the remote to provide a different, less annoying pain. Of course stabbing oneself in the eye does have the drawback of being a relatively limited option (which for most people stops at two), but it does have a certain permanence that lends it weight. But don't look at this as being advice to follow such a drastic course, rather, come up with your own drastic measures. It beats watching those nearly unavoidable commercials.

Diatribe of 11/28/04 - The Donald

Perhaps I've been a tad unfair when I've compared the wretched commercials featuring Carrot Top as a shill for AT&T as some of the most foul advertising villainy to ever wend it's way up from the netherworld. But then again, it's probably more accurate to say that comments such as that were right on the mark, at least for their time. For you see, an even more rotten bag of corporate spokesvermon has tottered in to our lives, pitching anything for which he might receive his ill-gotten 20 pieces of gold. And who just might this ubiquitous hell spawn be? Why Donald Trump of course. A businessman mainly known for somehow staying a multi-millionaire while his businesses routinely go bankrupt. A businessman who wears a dead Pomeranian on his head as a sign of contempt for those with and without hair. An alleged businessman with a voice and a demeanor so obnoxious that an intelligent mind cannot physically comprehend his being chosen as... Oh wait, how ridiculously obvious. When will I learn that advertising and intelligence don't have a common set? Sorry.

Diatribe of 10/24/04 - Bed of weeds? That's a flower garden!

I've oft heard it said that a weed is simply a plant for which the purpose simply hasn't been discovered yet. Others have a slightly different view and say that it's simply a plant growing where it isn't wanted. Well I have a slightly different take. Yup, weeds are the hell-spawned vegetative vermin that sprout up everywhere they might conceivably be unwanted and grow in a riot of reckless abandon while the desirable plants in their midst wither and die even when provided with top-notch haphazard care. Oh sure, there are those that say that with proper care the vermin can be controlled and the flowering blooms will flourish, but there's a pair of words here that make this outcome highly improbably. You guessed it, proper care are the words to which I refer. I mean c'mon people; if the desirable plants were really all that desirable then they wouldn't be so damn hard to keep alive. So while it might not be the common opinion, I think thistles and dandelions have their own special beauty that can be brought forth without any nurturing. And isn't that what really makes a plant desirable?

Diatribe of 9/12/04 - Peter Jackson - Pooch Screwer Extraordinaire

Having finally finished viewing each of the Lord of the Rings movies I'd like to say that I enjoyed them greatly. Of course that's what I'd like to say, the reality is closer to stating that Peter Jackson royally screwed the pooch with his butchering of the works of J.R.R. Tolkien. But perhaps that statement isn't quite right. What I should have said was that his interpretation of the novels was much like the effect that you'd get by taking a chainsaw to litter of cute defenseless puppies. Now I understand that many people, including the majority of the world population and the Academy of Motion Pictures might not agree with my, perhaps somewhat harsh, assessment. But as a book purist I had some issues with some of the changes Jackson made to bring this story to the big screen and as much as I'd like to elaborate on them here I really can't. After all, I only have so much space in which to tell this story, so, much like Jackson, I'll forgo providing any actual content or reasoning and just leave you with images of pureed pooch. It's only fitting.

Diatribe of 7/25/04 - To be or not to be? TO BE!

To be or not to be, that is the oft-quoted line from some relatively famous writer. But more importantly, it is also the subject of this particular really unknown writer. No, I'm not going to wax existential on the meaning of life and the reality or unreality of being, rather, I'm going to complain about something. (Bet you didn't see that coming.) This particular complaint is in regards to a increasingly common crime against the English language. The heinous crime of leaving "to be" out of a sentence where it is called for. To wit, the common phrase that I've heard from multiple sources, notably sources that surely can't be doing it just to drive me insane (and you know who you are), is: "...it needs fixed". Such a simple phrase. Such a simple concept to convey. Such a travesty against the English tongue that a punch to the throat seems like a perfectly reasonable response. Is it the text-messaging lifestyle that has reduced our youth to letter spouting cretins (LOL!) to blame? Is it yet another small step in the ongoing evolution of the English language? (Prithee, pray not that it be so!) Or could it be a wide-ranging conspiracy of hundreds of people all bent on driving me mad? Well as a great man (or at least a quotable one) once said, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean that they're not out to get you.

Diatribe of 6/14/04 - Just using fingers and toes isn't going to be enough

So what's the commonly quoted number that's supposed to represent the number of people cohabitating with us on this planet? Something like six billion or so? And how many people have been alive during the electronic age? Maybe double that? And for how many accounts and activities are each of these people going to require an account number? Maybe a nice low approximation of fifteen or so? Well doing the math that makes it:
6,000,000,000 X 2 X 15 = 180,000,000,000
So why is it that most of my account numbers are way more than 12 digits in length? Are these companies all anticipating some massive growth in the near future that includes every person on the planet or is this just another opportunity for them to aggravate us in a way that doesn't involve customer service. Actually, it wouldn't surprise me much to learn that that string of 20 numbers represents not only my account information but also contains my unique DNA encoding as well. It might. After all, what's more important, the telephone company's right to identify your decaying corpse via DNA evidence or the chance that you might have killed someone and tried to pass off the corpse as your own to dodge a bill for $38.50?

Diatribe of 5/16/04 - We don't need a better mousetrap, we need a better mouse

Having recently acquired an optical mouse for the first time I was looking forward to the fact that there would no longer be a need to remove the mouse ball every three weeks to dig out the layer of crud that maddeningly keeps it from tracking properly. And yes, this is exactly what's happened! Why right out of the box it will often track incorrectly even more often than the old crud-encrusted mouse ever did! Apparently using the mouse in the manner to which at least this mouse user had grown accustomed does not conform to the standard as developed by some evil corporate drone (probably Micrsoft, but that's just speculative). So what happens is that the pointer will randomly shoot to the lower left corner of the screen while in the middle of some task that doesn't happen to involve the lower left corner of the screen. So the options are either a mouse that goes to random positions or a mouse that doesn't track properly until the crud is cleaned out. Well the choice is obvious! It's time to find out the manner in which track balls suck.

Diatribe of 3/29/04 - "We're from the IRS and we're here to help" - what a whopper of a lie

The IRS estimates that up to 60% of taxpayers are eligible to use their free on-line system this year when doing their taxes. This is just one step towards their goal of having most people file their returns electronically. One little problem I see in this plan is that this large portion of the population doesn't actually own a computer, but that doesn't make the concept any less valid! And as far as the rest of us are concerned, we are welcome to either buy unneeded tax preparation software or to pay a hefty fee to a tax service to do our simple returns so that our forms can be processed electronically. And the incentive to do this? Because it will make things easier for the IRS and lower their costs. Well excuse me bloated bureaucracy if I don't bend over backwards to simplify your ability to audit me to hell and back. But more importantly, if taxes are going to continue to be so hard to do, then they should damn well be equally hard to read. So if you'll excuse me, I have a chimpanzee, er, I mean tax professional finishing up my returns right now. And while this tax professional does work cheap, the best part of the deal is that the feces come at no extra cost.

Diatribe of 2/19/04 - The leaded footed turtle looms ahead, and behind

While the slow driving morons that take a half-an-hour to pass someone else on the freeway as their cruise control is only set to a furlong an hour over the speed of the driver they're passing truly piss me off, I rediscovered another flavor of this particular cretin this weekend. And let me tell you, it wasn't a trip to flavor country. While we all know that people who blithely use their cruise control without regard to the traffic around them are deserving of swift and painful death, in many ways they're not as bad as those others whose speeds appear to be set by a random number generator. These are the people that come speeding up on your tail as you're passing someone so that you're forced to accelerate out of their way, but then you somehow find yourself passing them a mere two minutes later as their speed falls off. Then it's a matter of rinse, lather and repeat over the next 100 miles as this horrific tableau is repeated again and again. But why only a hundred miles? Because by then I've generally left the freeway in search of something that might deliver a swift painful death to a particular fellow motorist. But there's no need to thank me, really. When that day comes it will truly be my pleasure.

Diatribe of 12/30/03 - The light might be blinking, but there's nobody home

Allow me to state a few well known quotations that will help illuminate the subject of this particular diatribe.
- The hamster wheel is in place but the hamster is dead.
- Dumber than a sack of doorknobs.
- Nearly as bright as a 5 watt bulb.
Hmm... perhaps that doesn't shed as much light on the topic as I thought it would as those descriptions are accurate for many different species of moronicus cretinus. The particular subspecies of which I speak is the idiot that doesn't apparently know the meaning of a blinking light on a motor vehicle. Now don't be getting all huffy at me for repeating a diatribe because I am not re-complaining (no matter how much they deserve it) about the imbeciles that don't know how to use the turn signal themselves. No, on this occasion I'm complaining about the gibbering loons that don't know what a turn signal means! I see them all the time. There will be people (and I use the term loosely) behind me on an open two-lane street that won't change lanes when I've indicated that I'll be slowing down soon and making a turn. These buffoons instead ride my bumper and then accelerate hard once I've turned out of their way. Ah, but the last laugh is surely theirs as they contemplate the fact that one of my tail lights is going out as there's no other explanation for why it might have been blinking like that.

Diatribe of 11/25/03 - No more spam please, I've had enough

For many people the worst thing that shows up in their email inbox is the occasional filthy joke (or pehaps one that isn't filthy enough (it's all a matter of perspective)). For others it might be the odd piece of junk email that somehow sneaks through the maze of filters that are supposed to keep that crap out. Still others receive newsletters that they somehow signed up for and can't seem to cancel. Well those of us that regularly have to wallow in the depths of the SPAM cesspool to find our real email realize just how good these people have it and wish they would quit whining about trivialities before WE GIVE THEM SOMETHING TO REALLY WHINE ABOUT! Sorry. It just gets to me sometimes. And what exactly is it that gets to me? Why what gets to me is:
1. The 20 junk emails I receive each day with the subject line of "hi".
2. The 30 junk emails done in illegible character sets (generally asian).
3. The 40 junk emails with random subject lines and sender names.
4. The other 50 junk emails that don't match these criteria and take a few more seconds to identify.
But what gets to me most of all is the absence of really filthy jokes that I vainly hope to find scattered amongst the junk. Sheesh people, doesn't anyone mail dirty jokes any more?

Diatribe of 9/28/03 - Moronic Motorists Messing up Motorway

While the idiocy of the driving public truly knows no bounds, not all of the crimes against the driving community can be attributed to the neanderthal-like intelligence of the moronic motorist. No, while it is true that lobotomized buffoons are 99% of the problem there are other breeds of cretin that also help keep things congested and frustrating. The particular one that I'm referring to here is the inconsiderate dolt that blocks up the right lane that would otherwise allow people to turn right on red. It continually amazes me how people will move into the right lane so that they won't be trapped behind one car at a traffic light. Every morning I see the inevitable line of at least a dozen cars with their right turn signals blinking forming up behind someone that apparently sees themselves as some sort of drag racer and the motorist beside them as their next conquest. It's also inevitable that as the light changes the person doesn't realize it for a few moments and then pulls forward so slowly that it makes a Segway look fast. But perhaps I'm being hasty in my assessment here. Oh no, not about the person being an inconsiderate dolt, but rather that they are somehow different then any of the other drooling morons that make up the driving public.

Diatribe of 9/9/03 - At least there aren't any sad clowns

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. At least that's what Jane Austen would have you believe as that's the opening sentence of Pride and Prejudice. Well maybe that's the way things were back in Jane's day, but now a truth more universally acknowledged is that a man in possession of a house is in need of a good housekeeping service and someone capable of decorations that consist of something other than a school of novelty singing fish. Oh sure, the wall covered by the big screen TV is pretty much taken care of, but there's something about those vast expanses of blank wall that clearly state for all who know how to read the signs that the walls are only a tiny lapse away from bearing grimy beer posters and pictures of dogs playing poker. Not that I have anything against grimy beer posters and poker-playing dogs, but they just don't project the image of who I truly am. Of what life really means to me. Of what matters! Oh wait. Yes they do. Well at least I can still look down on the people with pictures of sad clowns.

Diatribe of 8/13/03 - So perhaps I am easily annoyed

Such a minor annoyance. Such a small transgression. Such a teeny-tiny thing to get your knickers in a bunch over. Such is surely your thought but brother it isn't the same as mine. Rather, I have a strong desire to unleash one of my patented "punches to the throat" to the perpetrators of the fell deed. The "fell deed" in this instance being the heinous crime of improperly formatting your emails. As my fury might at first glance seem to fail the screen for righteousness perhaps an example of the crime is in order. For example:
If we beable our lutefisk at the right time we can expect to synergize
the output into the global market and when coupled
with our supply chain achieve FLAWLESS VICTORY!
Since my example not only makes no sense but is idiotic as well, allow me to illuminate it further. What this illustrates is someone typing up some text with line breaks and tabs that looks fine on their screen, and would probably look fine on yours if your monitor settings and window width were exactly the same as the authors. So while it may be true that in many ways hope does indeed spring eternal, Dante is the guy I look to when I paraphrase Abandon all hope ye attempting to figure out the formatting of this email.

Diatribe of 7/9/03 - The Truth is that those commercials are highly annoying

You'd think that someone like myself with a veritable cornucopia of vile and disgusting habits wouldn't have need of any more. And truth to tell, I too believed that to be the case - until now. Yes, you see I've been thinking about taking up smoking. No, it's not that I feel that life is such an onerous and horrible burden that I'd like to bring it to an end that much sooner. And no, it wouldn't be a ploy to try and cash in on the massive tobacco related settlements that are enriching the most deserving of all, our nation's lawyers. And while I may be a fool, I'm not enough of a fool to believe the statements of those tobacco doctors that couldn't find a relationship between health problems and smoking if you lit 47 different corroborating studies on fire and jammed them down their pants. No, the reason that smoking is starting to seem like a pretty good idea is because those damn anti-smoking commercials are just so incredibly annoying that taking up smoking in response is starting to seem like a perfectly reasonable thing to do. Even if it means coughing my way to a date with an oxygen tank and an early grave at least I'll have a smile on my face and a skip in my step as I remember who brought me there. As I'm currently only about one or two heavy-handed ads away from buying a carton of Luckys and beginning my new unhealthy and ostracized lifestyle it's either give up the tube or hand me the smokes. So the choice really is easy. Anybody got a light?

Diatribe of 6/15/03 - Salesdroids vs. Hitler - Who's more evil?

While a statement such as: "All time-share resort salesman are the vilest of subhuman scum without even the decency of an ambulance chasing lawyer" is not likely to generate much controversy, you still have to wonder about just how factual a claim like this might be. Well let me tell you, pretty damn factual. Oh sure, it could be that my feelings have been swayed slightly by the fact that I've never been in the behorned presence of one of the legal swamp's bottom feeders, but I can't imagine they could be much worse then the sales cretin that accosted me the other day. The sales pitch was of a variety that I hadn't before experienced, and while this did make it somewhat novel, that didn't make it any more enjoyable. Yes, this particular vermin started off by attacking me with the statement that I'd skipped out on my appointment to visit their fine community earlier in the week despite my protests to the contrary because it seems their verification system makes this impossible. But not only that, I was a guaranteed winner of some sort of fabulous prize and with a fabulous prize and my having skipped my appointment I was told that I owed them a chance to either brainwash or strong-arm me into making a purchase. Alas, it was not to be and I am left with one regret. The regret that the phone I was using didn't afford me the opportunity to slam the handset down in what would hopefully be a deafening manner. But never fear, there's always next time.

Diatribe of 5/18/03 - Another Hallmark Holiday

Now that the evil date is in the past it's probably safe to take a moment to speak out against this vile anniversary and all things heinous that it embodies. A day that has somehow become associated with God, Apple Pie, and The American Way when in actuality the roots lie closer to Satan, Durian Pie, and The American Way. The aura of goodness is in fact so thin that the merest of nail scratches is all that would be needed to rip away the thin veneer of civility that this day has somehow acquired to reveal the ravening hellhound that lays beneath. A day whose deeds truly will live in infamy when the truth is someday uncovered. So join me people and by removing the shackles that have enslaved you and refuse to yield to this succubus-like day and it's artificial trappings! Rise up and shake off the onerous burden that this day has attempted to bury you under! BE FREE! But then I suppose if you insist, then there really are worse things than doing something for your Mom on Mother's Day.
Belated Happy Mother's Day Mom!

Diatribe of 3/30/03 - Windows, making life that much more interesting

While it has become increasingly popular to demonize the Windows operating system and the ruthless marketing strategy that makes this buggy software system the undeniable world leader (or ruthless despot if you prefer), you'll note that except for a few minor exceptions it's a bandwagon that yours truly has never ridden. The reason that I've never lambasted Windows and its suite of bloated applications is because I for one truly appreciate the many opportunities that Windows brings to me almost each and every day and the way it provides focus to the task at hand. Opportunities such as being able to express myself in stream of foul profanities at yet another inexplicable BSOD. Opportunities to put the mind on idle while retyping the last half-hour's work after yet another system hang. Opportunities to take a break while the machine is rebooted yet again in hopes that this time it will cure the glacial sluggishness of the machine. So here's a big ol' salute to Windows. You really do know where I want to go today - and like so many others that place is your world headquarters with a flamethrower in tow. But on the bright side, at least I'll be doing so with incredible focus.

Diatribe of 2/16/03 - Say hello to idiotic commercials

While the concept of annoying radio commercials was recently savaged by yours truly and it might seem a bit too soon to dust off the flog and take it to this particular dead horse, that would be akin to saying that the number of driving annoyances isn't truly infinite. As it is, yet another advertiser has crossed over the fat line that separates the stupendously horrific from the murderously maddening and made me want to fire bomb the establishment responsible for evil deed. This particular advertising abomination is the radio ad that starts off with the sound of a ringing telephone and then attempts to justify the sound with an opening statement along the lines of "Say hello to lower prices". If it wasn't for the fact that a former NFL offensive lineman was delivering this particular pile of prattle I'd do my best to have him say hello to one of my patented punches to the throat. Then again, maybe the advertisers knew just how evil they were being with this vile trick and figured a hulking brute would be the only person who could thumb their noses with impunity at the listening public. Come to think of it, maybe they really aren't so dumb after all.

Diatribe of 1/12/03 - Well it annoyed me anyway

Now that the holiday season is behind us (along with that ever-present reminder that leaves you wondering why all of your clothes seem to have shrunk) it's time to contemplate the many things about the year gone by that annoyed the hell out of us. As always, the year that was offered up ample opportunity for the goat to be got and the bile to bubble, but what was it about this year that made it truly unique, special, and more horribly noxious than other years past? Was it the steady stream of financial scandals, each more incredible than the last, that left you praying for that killer asteroid to strike? Was it that jerk that cut you off in traffic nearly making you spill your beer all over your lap that makes you want to rain fiery death on to all other motorists? Or was it the nearly endless stream of commercials featuring Carrot Top that had you weighing the merits of doing something Oedipul to your eyes? While these, and countless other injustices are indeed the fires upon which righteous fury might be stoked, they don't measure up to what was surely the pinnacle of vileness for the year 2002. And since I have no idea what the most truly annoying thing for 2002 might be I'll just go ahead and cop out and say it was what Pete Jackson did to The Two Towers. Okay, maybe it wasn't all that bad, but didn't I say I was copping out? And if you disagree so much go pick your own damn top annoyance. Sheesh.

Diatribe of 12/15/02 - Who are the Ad Geniuses that came up with this one?

I realize that there's only so many bright, creative and funny advertizing people in existence and that not every bit of advertising is going to capture my imagination (and hopefully my money) with its not too insipid message, but what sort of brain-dead cretin would actually pay for an ad that makes me consider fire-bombing the establishment in question? And it's not just Carrot Top that leaves me wanting to get a handgun and pull an Elvis on my TV screen, there's a host of radio advertisements that make those Carrot Top phone ads seem like high art. Ads with music so annoying that it makes you want to take an ice pick to your ear drums. Ads with the screaming message that if you don't throw cash at this product then you must be a drooling idiot. Yeah, I can see where someone thought it would be a good idea to call people stupid as a way to get them to start hemorrhaging cash all over their ill-conceived product. I can see that almost as well as I can see Carrot Top on my bullet-riddled TV. And come to think of it, BUY MY BROKEN TV OR ELSE YOU'RE THE MOST IDIOTIC MORON TO EVER WORM THEIR WAY DOWN A BIRTH CANAL. Wow, I can pratically hear the offers rolling in already. That is I could hear them if that last ad hadn't made me get out the ice pick.

Diatribe of 11/25/02 - The costs runneth over

Having recently paid a calling card bill for a single 5 minute phone call made during the middle of the day one has to ponder, WHAT THE HECK ARE THEY DOING TO MAKE AN INTRASTATE CALL SO DAMN EXPENSIVE? The cost of this single insignificant call left me wondering if they perhaps route certain calls through some sort of special single-use wires made of hand-spun gold of a Rumplestilskinish nature that must immediately be replaced by the most senior (and tortoise-like) union workers born aloft by robotic cherubs utilizing alien technology. And while technological crackpottery would go a long ways in explaining the cost, even it doesn't go far enough in explaining the incredible total. Heck, at prices like these it seems that it might just be cheaper to charter a flight and go chat with the correspondee in person. It's so bad that I'd wager that even an energy company executive bent on stealing every last dime out of the customer's pocket would hesitate at trying to pass off costs as exorbitant as these. Well I'll show them! Yessir, from now on I'll be calling collect and passing the cost on to you. After all, it's the American way.

Diatribe of 10/27/02 - The Romans aren't responsible for these road widths

I respect and admire legal corporate greed as much as the next guy, but even I have my limits. The monopolistic practices of Micro$oft don't bother me hardly at all and the deceptive bait and switch tactics conducted by the vermin that manage our retail sector are not only not bothersome, they are deserving of applause. But on the other end of the spectrum are the cretins that designed the roads in most newer neighborhoods. The cretins that should be sealed inside burlap sacks with rabid incontinent skunks. And no, it's not the crazy Escherian layouts which make getting lost so much more likely than it really needs to be, it's the widths that get my road rage going. Exactly how much sellable real estate would really have been lost if the builders had just gone ahead and made the roads a few feet wider? Wide enough so that perhaps if there are cars parked on both sides of the street that the remaining road width isn't reminiscent of a parking space at a shopping mall. It's not like I actually expect the road to be four car widths wide (as this would make too much sense), but something more than three would go a long ways towards fending off the inevitable rampage.

Diatribe of 9/8/02 - The other black gold.

Coffee. A potent black elixir that is both plentiful and cheap. Truly one of mankind's greatest achievements and if not on a par with any of the seven wonders of the world, not more than a bogey or so off. More precious than that other black gold as it awakens the body and enlivens the mind. That is it would if the bastard that just walked away from the coffee pot could be bothered to make another pot. It happens almost every day, there they'll sit, two pots with the barest dribble barely covering the bottom of the shamefully empty carafes. The goal of sweet caffeine just barely out of reach due to the acts of another. Oh, I know what the thought process (or thoughtless process as the case may be) of the cretins who leave the pots in this shape must be: "Neither pot is empty so there's no need to make another pot." Madness! Now whether to label this as idiocy, laziness, or contempt for their fellow non-caffeinated sleepwalkers is unimportant, what is important is to try and drink all of the coffee before them and then leave the pots as empty as they would. After all, when I do the evil deed it's pure sweet revenge, it's only when others do it that it's stupidity. As if I needed to tell you that.

Diatribe of 8/4/02 - Ask not for whom the dog barks, he barks for thee

Let's take a moment and discuss Man's Best Friend, the Dog. Loyal, obedient, trustworthy, but most important of all, doesn't know how or when to shut his yap for more than a few seconds so the next-door neighbor can sleep. So while there are many great and wonderful dogs in the world that are surely a constant sort of pleasure for not only their proud owners but also to those people that are fortunate enough to meet these fine canines, no beasts of that type dwell around these parts. No, I'm afraid this neighborhood runs more to the likes of hellhounds and demon dogs. Not that I have any hard evidence of evil per se as there hasn't been any news of missing people or occult occurences with an oddly canine slant, but there are more types of evil in the world then the occasional dismemberment of an unsuspecting groundskeeper caught walking upon a Scottish moor. Why I'd put the ability to bark for hours at a time with nary a break up against the foul deeds of any Baskervillien hound any day! A sleep deprived soul might go so far as to say that the barker is even the viler of the two. That is at least as long as the demonic hound could perform any nefarious deeds both discreetly and quietly as there's nothing worse than an evil beast that can't go about its work quietly.

Diatribe of 6/23/02 - It could just be stupidity, but it's probably evil at work

It's not like I need to point out that the cable company is evil, everyone already knows that. It's like telling people that water is wet or that Carrot Top isn't funny - universal truths don't need to be explained. But a whole new aspect of their vile nature was revealed to me when I moved just a mile or two from my old digs; an entirely new channel lineup. Sure it was evil enough that they rearranged all of the channels a year or two ago without any prior warning, but on the up side the channels were (for a refreshing change) actually aligned with what was shown in the TV listings. This doesn't mean that my new neighborhood has been screwed up by the folks down at Warner Cable. Far from it! This means my old neighborhood is in some sort of Bizarro world where strange things like being able to find the channel in the listings actually happens. Either that or it's an oversight by the crack cable channel realignment team where they've somehow actually delivered what they advertised. Heads will certainly roll if the boys down at central learn about that one! But enough of my whining, it's time to go review my TV channel flash cards so that I don't end up catching a glimpse of Richard Simmons when I'm expecting Porky Pig. The difference may not seem all that great, but the fifteen seconds it took me to figure out the error was enough to shock me sufficiently to contemplate giving up TV entirely.

Diatribe of 5/26/02 - The joys of buying a home

I'd like to take a moment and wax poetic about the abundant joys that come with the shopping for and subsequent purchase of a house. I'd like to take what would normally be a diatribe and turn it into a love-fest concerning the great pleasure that I've derived from this experience. Unfortunately, not having any joys or pleasure associated with this task I will instead have to rant and rave about the horrors associated with the home buying experience. Why does it have to be this awful? Why is the system set up to make every last aspect of the purchase process adversarial? And why above all, in the name of all that's not unholy, does the whole damn circus leave you feeling like you just got screwed over? I'd like to believe it's because there are legal contracts involved and where you have lawyers you're bound to have people getting screwed over, but that seems a tad too simplistic. It's probably more closely related to each and every last party involved wanting squeeze every last nickel out of the buyer that they can, but as this would cast a host of people in a bad light I'll instead just blame the lawyers. Never let it be said that I'm not willing to take the easy way out.

Diatribe of 4/21/02 - The Taxman Auditeth

Since the inevitable IRS audit and my impending imprisonment can't be too far in the future, I figured I might as well get the whole story out to the world before the jackbooted thugs come to haul me away. But you see, it really wasn't my fault. Oh sure, falser words have rarely been spoken but despite the fact that I can't fall back on the ever popular "But I was only following orders" sub-defense, in my case the words are true. But let me give you my biased version of the story known as "The Facts" and allow you to judge for yourself. Waiting to complete my taxes seemed like the bright thing to do this year as a big fat check was going to accompany the blood-stained tax forms that Scrooge McDuck, er, Uncle Sam insists upon receiving. So a week or so into April I fire off my taxes while performing the necessary unholy rites and sacrifices that are insisted upon by the powers that be and everything seemed to go off okay without more than the standard one or two ethereal screams torn from my throat. But what should slither its way into my mailbox 2 days after I complete my taxes? A [censored very bad word] 1099-DIV from a [another very bad word] company that is holding a few shares of stock on my behalf. That's right, I have now under-reported my income to the tune of almost fifty dollars because some cretins apparently don't know that there's a difference between the end of January and mid-April. Oh well, at least prison will give me a chance to get caught up on my reading. Mostly I'll be studying up on methods of revenge that can be readily applied to a [yet another very bad word] financial services company - just in case information like that might someday prove useful.

Diatribe of 3/18/02 - Where are you going to make me go today?

Since you're reading this it is highly probably that you're aware of something called a web browser. You may even be aware of the two leading flavors of web browser that are utilized by the vast majority of the public in their unending search for porn; Opera and Lynx. Ha ha, I kid. Not about the porn surfing part, but rather about Opera and Lynx being major web browsers. Because while they may indeed be web surfing applications in use primarily by computer geeks all over the world, these are computer geeks we're talking about and everyone knows that they aren't exactly human. But getting back to the diatribe at hand, Netscape and MSIE are the dominant browsers in use today and because of this most people design web pages that cater to both of these giants. Or rather they would if they gave a rat's ass about people who don't like MSIE. More and more it happens where I stumble across a web site using Netscape that either is missing half of its content or won't load at all. And given that these are quite often business sites that are hoping to lay their greedy mitts on some portion of my disposable income this either means that they don't care about my Netscape based business or else that there's a black hearted conspiracy with Micro$oft at the vile center that is part of grand scheme to take over the world. Well the choice is clear and I for one welcome my Micro$oft overlords and look forward to the day when I can inform on those who don't see things as they are supposed to. Where do you want to go today?

Diatribe of 2/6/02 - The Accidental Tourist

Now that fabled Charon has guided yet another birthday down the river Styx to never be seen again on these mortal shores, it's time to yet again abandon the topic that I seemed to be addressing at the opening of this diatribe and veer it off into the oncoming traffic of tragically inappropriate metaphors and create a literary pileup of gruesome malapropisms. But since that would require more space (and effort) than I'm willing to devote to these muddled efforts, it's time instead to complain about you, the reader. No, not you, the person who actually visited this page knowing full well what crap you were due to encounter, but rather you, another of the faceless mass that is the illiterati that somehow arrived at this page by accident. Whether it was your search for "dancing icons" or else the oft searched for "under construction symbol", you've accidentally stumbled across this page because you didn't know how to interpret the results of your internet search. Well let me tell you something my accidental tourist, you warm my heart with your hit counter inflation, but you curdle my blood by having found my page because something in the Story of Michelle matched your search string. So begone foul fiend, for not only is your bizarre porn fetish not to be slaked here, information on how Charon is related to the river Styx is also going to be sorely lacking.

Diatribe of 12/31/01 - Give me palindromes, and I'll give you death!

As 2001 draws to a what can only be described as a timely end, this would be an excellent time to take diatribe in hand and rant about one of the many idiocies and absurdities that annoyed me at the start of the new millennium. But since doing the obvious is numbered highly among those things that I abhor, it's time to complain in advance about the New Year being the year of the palindrome. For those of you that are unwilling to recall, a palindrome is a phrase that is the same forwards as backwards. One of the best known being "A man, a plan, a canal, Panama." The same can also readily be done with numbers making 2002 a palindromic year while we don't have to look too far to see that the most recent one was a scant 10 years ago (1991). People who are fascinated by the fact that the next one won't occur for another 110 years (2112) are likely to drone on endlessly about this little mathematical oddity. While this particular annoyance isn't anywhere near deserving one of my patented punches to the throat©, it does perhaps warrant a minor mauling by a pack of pit bulls for pointing out a meaningless milestone. So happy palindromic New Year to all, and to all a good bite.

Diatribe of 11/18/01 - When metaphors attack

With the holiday season fast approaching like a wayward meteor that is destined to destroy all life on earth other than a few protozoa that will be the stock of the next primordial stew, it is time to turn our attention to the inappropriate metaphor. While perhaps it'd be easier to attack the eldritch horror that is the holiday season with a double barreled shotgun as it claws its way back to our plane from the mildewed grave in which it has slumbered these many months, that vein of ideas has been strip-mined to depletion in a manner that would make James Watts proud. And for those of you that can't keep metaphor and simile straight in your minds, don't come crying to me with your crocodile tears of confusion with the hope that I'll come along like the mythical Egyptian plover that supposedly picks the food out from between the crocs teeth in an effort to clean things up like a dental hygienist to the anthropomorphized. But with that said, I really don't have any idea what I'm griping about this week other than that it's been far too long since I used the word cretin, but that's never stopped me from publishing before and don't expect this time to be an exception.

Diatribe of 10/2/01 - As if I cared who made this crap

Having never visited Hollywood myself I can only imagine (thankfully) the acres and acres of production studio sprawl that must surely litter the landscape. And while I am sure there are countless other oily vipers fouling the smog-filled air, it's the production studios that have caught my eye of late. And how might you ask do they manage this feat from thousands of miles away? Why with their constant stream of plugs that terminate the programming that oozes into our homes each day. Perhaps you've even noted this phenomenon yourself. When a show ends, company logo after company logo parades across the screen to make sure that you know who's responsible for the programming to which you have been subjected. Often there are 5 or 6 different high-priced graphic images that reel across the screen in quick succession naming the companies involved in bringing you the crap that you were too lazy to change the channel away from. But where will it end? Will the programs have to be shortened so that all 37 companies involved in bringing you "Survivor XXV, Wisconsin Dells" can have their moment of your valuable time? Well I don't know and I don't care as I only have to time to say that this diatribe was brought to you by:
1. The fine folks at Beable Enterprises - The beable goes in before the name goes on.
2. In conjunction with, the Chub Group - Making adolescents snicker for over 30 years.

Diatribe of 9/3/01 - Rain rain go away, and stay gone

The flooding brought on by tropical storm Allison last June was truly a spectacle to behold. Who could forget the sights, the sounds (mostly the splatter of rain interrupted only by regular peals of thunder), and most unforgettable, the smells (mostly of backed up sewers). Well while Allison may have moved on to the history books, the memories are hardly forgotten. And one of the main reasons they can't be rooted out of short-term memory and relegated in the depths of long-term memory is that the damnable rain just won't end! I mean sheesh, while maybe there's supposed to be an occasional thunderstorm around these parts, what with every weather forecaster normally doing some serious CYA by including a 20 to 30 percent chance of thunderstorms in what is laughably referred to as a summer forecast, the storms aren't supposed to come at us continuously for more than a week at a time. It's like having all of the bad parts of living in a tropical rainforest (continuous rain and heat) without the redeeming qualities of teams of tree decimating clear cutters and a vast array of poisonous flora and fauna. At least then there would still be something more interesting to beware of rather than a puddle of indeterminate depth.

Diatribe of 7/21/01 - Pinball Programming Punks!

There's a pretty major bug in the electronic pinball game on my computer and I'm pretty sure that one of two different possibilities explains this bug:
1. It was assumed that no one would be willing to play the game for that long.
2. The fargin' programmers were too lazy to implement code for the possibility of someone playing that long.
If your internal dinging sound commenced after reading "2", then you're most definitely in my camp on this one. Yup, when I'm having really good game of pinball and the dumb "rank" I've achieved gets to the Fleet Admiral level, if I dare go beyond that point the game rewards me in a somewhat backhand manner by locking the computer up hard. This means that on those occasions when I'm having a particularly good game, I get the added challenge of having to try my hardest not to achieve certain objectives as they'll increase my rank further. So allow me to repeat; fargin' programmers. But while this does put a bit of a damper on game play it's not all bad. At least it means that I'll stop playing the stupid game as it's just too damn frustrating to start up again after a lockup occurs. And since it bears repeating I shall repeat; fargin' programmers.

Diatribe of 6/10/01 - Paybacks of the Karmic kind are heck

Having spent many years being a rather poor paperboy (or newsprintdeliveryperson as they are probably now known) you would think that I would have a much greater tolerance for whatever little problems occasional crop up in the delivery of my paper. Well if you're thinking that then it's obvious that you're new around here. Because to sum it up in just a few words, my paper carrier sucks. Now it's not all bad as the paper generally arrives early enough, is generally complete, and is for the most part about where I expect it to be. Unfortunately that expectation has come to mean that I know my paper will be in a puddle unless it's actually raining, then the puddle isn't really required and it just becomes an added bonus. And does this deliverer of sodden newsprint believe in doublebagging the paper when it's raining as I've heard other carriers do? Heck no. It is apparently this carriers goal to deliver as mushy of a product as possible as frequently as possible. But since this is probably some sort of cosmic payback for my own years of shoddy service I have no choice but to simply grin and bear it simply taking what comfort I can from the fact that my carrier will surely be getting his own karma "payback" at some future date. I'm hoping for something with fireants, but anything that's prolonged and painful is okay with me.

Diatribe of 5/6/01 - To not serve man

While those in the vending industry haven't quite realized their dreams of sucking all of the cash out of the wage slaves that partake of their stale offerings, they have taken an important step with a vile new practice that I've noted of late. While perhaps not as bad as the machine that utilizes mechanical arms to pick you up and shake free your spare change, we can only assume the reason this hasn't materialized is because they haven't been able to get that technology to work. The heinous practice that is within their reach is that of not letting you know what items are sold out prior to inserting your cash. Have you seen this one yet? I swear they exist. The idea is simple enough, if the customer is desperate enough for a can of sugar and caffeine to pay the overly inflated prices, then surely they'll simply pick something else if the item they want isn't in stock as indicated by the flashing light after the no-armed bandit has already claimed your money. And you have to admit, most of the time this is true. It's not like it's worth getting your change back and walking to the machine 3 feet away, that's just too much effort. But it makes you wonder what the next step in this technology will be. Give the person back their money in pennies if they opt not to buy as a means of punishing them? Not actually stocking the machine with any products but not giving any change either? Heck, if I wanted to throw my money away I'd go to Vegas. At least there I have a chance of getting a "free" drink.

Diatribe of 3/18/01 - That beat is just a little too phat

While I may have been young and stupid once myself, one of the up sides to the debilitating effects of aging is the fact that I can't remember the stupid stuff that I surely used to do. Case in point, I had a pretty good car stereo (Alpine) and fairly decent set of speakers (Pioneer until they were stolen and then Alpine) and while I probably listened to this system at decidedly unhealthy volumes, surely it wasn't anything near what I hear from the base loving cretins that vibrate their way through my neighborhood. Or could it have been true that my neighbors of yesteryear were troubled by the bass track of some Cheap Trick song with which I was busy damaging my hearing? Could it be the case that I too rattled the souvenir teacups of the elderly as I cruised the streets in my mean machine? Could it be that I have the utter gall to refer to a '74 Dodge Monaco as a "mean machine"? Nah (At least to everything other than the bit about the Monaco; that's just pure unmitigated gall.), it must be that today's kids just don't have the sense of common courtesy or decency that I exhibited in my youth by never cranking the stereo all the way up to 'eleven'. Well, it's either that or else kids today just have better stereos and I'd rather believe the best about myself. So don't go listening to what a few old cranks with obviously poor memories might recall. Those are either false memories or else it wasn't me or else I've never even heard of Pink Floyd. Take your pick, if memory serves they're all pretty accurate.

Diatribe of 2/18/01 - Day of the Living Dead

While those brave souls that do shiftwork year round are to be commended for the sacrifice they make of never getting to deal with the majority of humanity (well, maybe not too severe of a sacrifice) as they live the life of the pasty white mole people, I envy their well adjusted circadian rhythms and ability to sleep through the day. Yes folks, shift work sucks. Don't get me wrong, I know it's a part of the job, but unsuccessfully trying to slumber while the rest of the world (or for you pedants - at least those in this time zone) is awake tends to turn you into a shuffling mumbling zombie. Or to be more precise, a manimal. A manimal (a term coined by Dave A.) is one who sleeps when tired (or at least tries to), eats when they hunger (almost always excessively), and lays around the rest of the time without the energy to do anything other than the previously mentioned sleeping and eating. Or to put it in a different perspective, it's akin to how you feel after your third straight day of wretched excess at Mardi Gras and while you're not entirely sure how you got to this state, you swear next time is going to be different! Sure it is, now if you'll excuse me, must find more brains.

Diatribe of 1/21/01 - Can't we have more attrition, please?

While I have long hated Caller ID and all that it stands for (Oh, I don't mind talking to people, I just don't want to talk to you), the temptation to go to the dark side is growing strong of late. And not just because the new phone system at work includes this feature since having Caller ID at work doesn't mean that I've come to like and appreciate the feature and what it allows me to do. Far from it. It now means that people answer the phone "Hi Dean, what do you want?" which has had the effect of making me despise this Feature from Hades all the more. No, what really has my knickers in a bunch is the advent of the wonderful telemarketing innovation that allows a machine to make the calls but then transfers the call to a human (and I use the term loosely) once someone answers the phone. And by 'wonderful' in the previous sentence I mean 'wonderful' in the manner of speaking where if I ever met the guy who came up with the idea for this technology I'd punch him in the throat. No by God, telemarketers should be forced to listen to ringing phones and idiotic answering machine messages like the rest of us, just as Alexander Graham Bell intended. They shouldn't be allowed to bypass rousing recorded renditions of "Call Me" by Blondie or "Broke my Heart in Four" by CML. For after all, how are we to keep attrition high in the ranks of the telemarketer if they aren't suffering enough?

Diatribe of 11/21/00 - Toilet seat covers and other decorating don'ts

While Scrappy Doo might be the most heinous scourge to ever befoul the airwaves, there is something nearly as vile that lurks in many people's homes that for the most part hides from the light of day. But the really odd thing about this menace is that it not only exists with the full knowledge of many homeowners, but in many cases it even meets with their approval! This approval as a rule is generally confined to just one gender, but that doesn't mean that it is any less a stain on all that is right and true. So, to quit flogging a dead lead-in I of course am referring to fuzzy toilet seat covers. You know the hell spawn of which I speak. They are generally done in some garish color, all too often pink, and come with not only the required matching tank cover, but often with a matching floor mat to give the whole bathroom that hair from a troll doll feel. But why do women insist on adding these bits of froppery? To provide a bit of padding to an otherwise hard surface? Yeah, right. To show who the true boss of the house is because no man would have one on his own? No, although it's probably a close second. Actually, the real reason that these hideous coverings exist is to prevent the seat from staying in the correct default postion when placed there, which as we all know is 'up'.

Diatribe of 10/8/00 - Fall, a time of magic!

Being in Texas the change of seasons occurs a little later here than it does in the northern climes from which I originally haled. Yes, just the other night the fall season came through here during a 7 minute span some time after midnight and now winter is upon us. Oh sure, it's not the real winter that comes with the solstice or daylight standard time or whatever it's tied to, but it's pretty winterlike for these parts. Now the change of seasons was probably pretty neat but unfortunately I was asleep and was unable to revel in the full glory that was the several minutes of the fall season. But those of you that don't live around these parts are probably wondering what splendors mother nature unfolds in south Texas during the rather short season known as fall. Well let me tell you, fall in Texas is not about the leaves changing color as they pretty much fall to the ground still green, and it's not about cool brisk days as that's really just reserved for winter, and it's not about winterizing your house because everyone waits for every single television and radio station to warn you about the first Big Freeze (our top story tonight on Eye Action Care Witness News) so that there can be the yearly run on pipe insulation. No, fall is that time of year when you can finally mosey on up to your neighbor and say, "You can tell your boy Jimmy that he only needs to mow my grass once a month now." Truly a time of magic.

Diatribe of 8/13/00 - Pricing policy or random number generator?

Once again our fine cable industry has provided me with a topic that is based on their sheer stupidity. Now while many people might feel that the total lack of service provided by the cable company is where they really make their enemies I would have to flatly state that people who believe this must have oatmeal between their ears. No, where the cable company truly shines is on their idiotic pricing policies. Now many of you may have noticed that there is a war being waged between the cable and satellite television industries to see who can be the sole provider of the vapid entertainment upon which America thrives. You would think that random price increases and decaying service would be things to avoid while you're fighting for survival. Well then you don't have what it takes to be an executive at Time Warner Communications. The baboons in charge of pricing somehow decided to increase the cost of digital cable by 75% without any kind of accompanying announcement as to why they were doing this or even that it was being done. No, that's not an exaggeration folks, 75% was the exact amount of the increase. They tried to mask the increase by splitting up the costs of the cable box, remote, and service into separate charges where before there had been a single charge. Excuse me? You didn't think I'd notice? Even with the amount of the previous payment sitting right there on the same bill? Well it took me about a day to cancel that service and now Time Warner is paying me to hold on to the cable box. You see, they have a policy that if they don't show up for a scheduled service call that they'll pay you $20. I've now sat here through 3 scheduled appointments for them to pick up the stupid box and still no sign of them yet. I'm thinking of not hanging around through my future appointments as the odds of them actually showing up can't be very high.

Diatribe of 7/9/00 - Not all baggage is the emotional kind

While the very finest example of the herd mentality in action of course involves the use of public transportation (e.g. the subway or bus) where every attempt is made to make the traveling experience as horrific and painful as possible, my not having encountered either of these bovine crowds recently forces me to go with a more recent personal experience. Namely, the doddering cretins that clog up the baggage claim areas in our airports. Logic would dictate that everyone stand a few feet back from the luggage carousel and that you would only step forward to claim your battered bag once it is sighted. This would provide the optimum room for those claiming bags and allow everyone to see the eventual arrival of their boxes with the crushed word fragile just barely legible among the crates of live chickens. Of course logic has nothing to do with this process as this description doesn't even approximate the truth. The truth is that the one person waiting for his/her bag gets as close to the belt as possible and is quickly joined by the three people that came to pick him/her/it up. This despite the fact that there is only one bag coming and the three 'helpers' don't even know what it looks like. Bah! Of course it could be that these extra people are vainly hoping that the bag that a completely different airline lost on their trip to Little Rock 6 years ago might by some miracle come trundling around the corner. Well even if it does that doesn't mean that your chickens are going to be all that robust at this point so move over and give me some room, my geese aren't going to take care of themselves.

Diatribe of 5/14/00 - Whyfore art thou diatribe?

Having no deadlines and an audience of about 3 or 4 people you would think that these damn diatribes would pretty much write themselves. It should be as simple as observing some annoying aspect of everyday life, slapping together a few non sequitors concerning the events, spell check, and voilà, another bit of flotsam to clog up the world wide web! HA! If only it were that easy. For example, I have to take the time to make sure that I use terms such as "non sequitor" and "flotsam" correctly. I have to attempt to try and make the thing at least marginally humorous. Why, I even take the time to consider the needs of my target audience before promptly chucking their needs out the window. So why do I do it? Why do I even bother creating these unread bits of dreadful prose? One might say it's my way of grabbing a bit of immortality. A way of making my voice heard in the vast wasteland that is the web. A way of giving people something besides porn to look at. Well while these might all be valid reasons, none of them even approximate the truth. I do it because I'm paying an internet company whose e-mail I never use anymore to provide me with something so it might as well be for web space. Heck, maybe I should just convert the whole damn thing to a porn site; at least then it would be visited once in a while.

Diatribe of 4/16/00 - Radar Love indeed

While virtually everyone other than the left lane blocking, blinker failed on, head below dash level octogenarian that never gets above 52 miles an hour on the freeway considers themselves a prime target for the kind attentions of our nation's law enforcement community (often affectionately referred as "Smoked Bear"), the reality of the situation is somewhat different. As has been comic fodder for untold generations ("Better slow the chariot down, that centurion might see that you're going 20 cubits per hogshead") the cops really don't care if you're a couple of miles an hour over the speed limit on the highway and most people seem to realize this. Now that doesn't mean you should keep your leaden foot on the pedal when the cop has you in his sites as no one but a government economist considers fifteen miles per hour to be equivalent to a couple. No, you should ease off a bit just in case county revenues are a tad low this month, but this doesn't mean that you have to ease it on down to a value considerably less than the speed limit. Why do people do this? Why do they drop to five or ten miles an hour under the speed limit when they see a cop, a cop that is already out of his vehicle because he (or she) has someone pulled over no less? I'll tell you why, because these people are idiots. What? You were expecting some sort of explanation? Well deal with it bucko, some times the truth doesn't need a long drawn out conclusion.
Coming soon: Authors who shortchange the topic out of sheer laziness.

Diatribe of 3/20/00 - I didn't know Uncle Sam carried a scythe

You know the old saying, only two things in life are guaranteed, death and taxes. Of course one of these items is something that everyone fears, is surrounded by mystical rituals dating back thousands of years and causes much soul searching among young and old alike, and death isn't anything to sneeze at either. But as much as you'd like to sweep the whole thing under the rug and take your chances on a fun-filled all expense paid trip to prison courtesy of those jolly revenuers, the realization is surely dawning that it's just about time to bite the bullet and do your taxes. After sweating through incomprehensible forms and even worse instructions it won't be long before visions of Schedule D will be dancing in your head with the hopes that Uncle Sam won't be sending you an auditor of dread. But to every dark cloud (and believe me, this one's pretty damn opaque) there is a nondeductible silver lining and things could be much worse as these two prominent examples will demonstrate. One, you could be forced to either write or interpret the tax code for a living - not an enviable chore for even the most masochistic accountant. Or, even worse, you could be Canadian and have the government take way more of your money than even the Democrats dream of doing in their wildest flights of fancy! So smile and have a happy thought as you work out your earned dividend credit debenture investmentitude per Schedule 317B because after all, it really could be worse, eh?

Diatribe of 2/8/00 - What were we talking about again?

One of the great joys of growing older is that you get to put behind you the childish raucous and giddy antics of youth and replace them with the boring methodical meanderings of dotage. But perhaps that bromide isn't specific enough to allow you to picture in your mind's eye this month's topic. Well if I could remember what it was that I had in mind when I sat down I'd surely write about it. Instead, let's take a step into a Dave Barry column and talk about how much suckier conversation with our peers has become as we've grown older. In college and our early working years it was stories of late parties, excessive overindulgence in the demon alcohol that you swear you're never going to touch again, and generally hedonistic activities that would prevent you from running for public office were they ever discovered. Now the talk turns to stock prices, excessive indulgence in the demon fatty food that you swear you're going to give up as soon as this diet starts, and the hedonistic backgrounds of those scoundrels running for public office. It's enough to make an immature man weep. And that's just what I'm doing, weeping. To think that I could have bought Conexant at 20 for the better part of four months!

Diatribe of 1/3/00 - The song formerly coined by Prince

The Y2K bug is behind us now so it's time to welcome the year 1900 (or 19100 depending on the date system in your computer). But what does this new year, this new century, nay, this new millennium have in store for us? I'll tell you. It will have scores of people with nothing better to do than arguing the point that it really isn't a new millennium and that you're an idiot for thinking it might be. If perhaps you've lived under a rock for these last few months and you didn't follow the argument, people who believe in mathematical correctness have been having aneurysms left and right whenever they hear someone state that this year is the start of the new millennium. They point out the fact that there was no year zero and that we won't have finished 2000 years until this year ends. They are probably even correct. But you know what? The only reason that it's the year 2000 is because it was arbitrarily decided by Pope Gregory XIII in 1582 to make a new calendar where the year zero would fall somewhere near Christ's birth. But more importantly, NO ONE CARES WHETHER IT'S REALLY THE NEW MILLENNIUM OR NOT! All people really want is a good reason to party. My personal take on the whole matter is the switch from 1999 to 2000 is more interesting than the switch from 2000 to 2001. But come next December I'll probably come around to the fact that 2001 is in fact the new millennium. After all, it should make the parties more interesting and isn't that what's important?

Diatribe of 12/8/99 - A rocket scientist? Ha!

I can't believe the utter gall some people exhibit in the choice of clothes they wear. You, probably much like me, see these morons traipsing about without a seeming care in the world with the lie out in plain sight for all to see and, rather than cringing and trying to hide their crime, they seem almost proud and display their vile misdeed for all to see! What crime against fashion could enrage me so? No, it's not fat old transvestites wearing lingerie (although this is somewhere very near number 2 on the list of things that I'd rather not see). It's the brazen offense of wearing one of those Marvin Martian "Actually, I Am A Rocket Scientist" shirts when you know full well that the cretin sporting the shirt couldn't find a solution to Laplace's equation with a flashlight, both hands, and a compass. Now don't get me wrong, I don't think that all of these people should be hunted down and fed to packs of rabid dingoes. Those that are able to answer a simple question or two would be allowed to go on sporting this most fashionable of shirts. A couple of easy questions on the proper use of the Reynolds number or perhaps a quick breakdown of the Mach number regimes would be sufficient to prove the validity of the shirt wearer's claim. Those unable to answer these trifling questions would be stripped of their ill-gotten shirt and unceremoniously fed to the aforementioned beasts. Naturally those people who have jobs that most would agree qualify them as 'Rocket Scientists' would be exempt from any testing and could wear these shirts with impunity. It certainly seems fair to me.

Diatribe of 11/7/99 - Stop him before he cliches again!

The best sport's clich�s of all time come from the now legendary Yogi Berra who may or may not have coined such classics as: "It ain't over til it's over" and "You can observe a lot just by watching." These are of course fine examples of the genre and also help to explain why Nobel Prizes and Athletic scholarships tend to so rarely overlap. But what of the modern sports clich�? What of the hyperbole that graces our airways each Saturday and Sunday when the mental giants that make up our sports commentators take the airwaves? What of these gabby men? Well these men shouldn't even be allowed to parody Mr. Berra. Here a few of my too often heard favorites:
1. If they can stay close until the end then they feel as though they have a good chance to win this ballgame.
2. If they can keep the other team's offense off the field they feel they can win this game.
3. Whoever has more points on the board at the end will win this game.
Okay, maybe I did make that last one up but you had to think about it for a second because you realized that an idiot like Madden is perfectly capable of saying just that. It's not bad enough that you have to hear these paragons of obviousness just once or twice, but these mental giants repeat these idiotic phrases over and over again. Is it some vain hope that maybe people will start to believe the junk they're peddling? No, because it's doubtful that even these cretins believe phrases like this will become classics. What's more likely to be the case is that the wheel is in place but the hamster doesn't live there anymore if you get my drift.

Diatribe of 10/4/99 - What are they selling again?

If you watch any TV whatsoever you've surely seen the latest commercial featuring great numbers of the so called slack generation. There they stand in their disheveled attire listlessly mumbling the words to a song that you liked up until the first time you saw this commercial. I'm sure that I'm not the only one that assumed that this was an advertisement for either heroin or perhaps some hip new brand of condom. But no, this is yet another ad for a what I believe to be a store known as 'The Gap'. And no, they aren't selling heroin or condoms. An astute observer might even infer that they might be trying to sell clothes. Of course if one is really an astute observer and assumed this it's obvious that an astute observer doesn't have any clue as to how modern advertising works. What they are pushing with these vaguely creepy ads is nothing so mundane as mere clothing. Oh heavens no. What they are selling is IMAGE. Yes, get to The Gap and load up on whatever junk might be burdening their shelves or you will be laughed right out the door on your next trip to the oxygen bar. Then again I suppose it does beat the heck out of the alternative. What alternative is that? Why the alternative of buying a bunch of 'Old Navy' brand clothing making you a convert to an even more bizarre advertising campaign. Never was the word 'lesser' harder to apply to two evils.

Diatribe of 9/6/99 - Deplane boss! Deplane damnit!

There must be an announcement but for some reason I've never been able to hear it. I imagine that it goes something like this: To slow the deplaning process as much as possible please crowd together in the aisle from the jetway and conduct your greetings in as long and intimate of a manner as is possible in this very public forum. This of course is just my guess at what must be said as I've never actually heard it but by now you're picturing the horrific scene as you've seen it played out countless times before. Great Aunt Gladys' plane has arrived and the entire clan (with the regrettable absence of a 'coon hound or two - due to gol darn stupid airport policy) is present to welcome her to [your city]. As soon as the plane's landing is announced they rush forward as a mob to welcome her, the wee tikes expertly filling the gaps that might otherwise allow a determined traveler to actually get off the plane. The deplaning passengers searching for any kind of opening that might allow them to work their way to the terminal, eventually hurdling a row of benches in a desperate bid for freedom. The eventual appearance of Aunt Gladys and the welcoming cries of the clan, now somewhat drowned out by the moans of the injured who couldn't pull off a clean hurdle. It truly is a magnificent spectacle to behold. Of course I'm given to understand that the people generally beholding this spectacle are often offensive line coaches for college and pro teams. After all, you've got to find that winning strategy somewhere.

Diatribe of 8/11/99 - It's only TV Wasteland

Having the album cover handy it's quite convenient for me to look up the lyrics to the song that I find to be particularly pertinent to today's rant.
I got elastic bands keeping my shoes on
got those swollen hand blues
got thirteen channels of shit on the T.V. to choose from
Sweet words of poetry. Not that I know what they mean by swollen hands, 'cuz I don't know what that means, but the rest rings pretty true. All those T.V. channels and not a damn thing on. Sure this is common comic fodder, as well it should be. But those same comics make jokes about mythical stations like the 'Bad Poetry Channel' and 'The PEZ Channel'. If only this were true. I think I could get far more enjoyment out of watching a special on the worlds largest Pez dispenser collection then the dreck that populates the 60 or 70 channels that currently annoy me. Oh sure, you could correctly point out that I could either be learning about sharks on the Discovery Channel or else familiarizing myself with all things Merle Haggard on The Nashville Network. Gah! Now if I could see Merle Haggard being eaten by sharks, that would be something that would put me in front of the ol' idiotic box. But alas, ol' Merle is just going to keep on crooning (if I can use that word) and, despite the fact that she hasn't appeared in anything in 20 or 30 years, Elizabeth Taylor is going to continue to be profiled on E!'s True Hollywood Story. Allow me to say it again in case you missed it - Gah! Do you think that shark is hungry enough for 'em both?

Diatribe of 7/6/99 - The Smoker's Gauntlet

"He cuts left, spins, does an incredible slide step to his right and crosses the line!" One of the lines of hype from a Ricky Williams promotional video? No. This is the typical routine I use when entering a building to avoid the inevitable miasma of Marbolo smoke that clouds the air in our nation's doorways. Those non-smokers among you have been the victims of one of these grisly gauntlets at one time or another. While our smoking brethren may have been banished to the obscurity of our nations doorways, attempting to suck down a cigarette in as little time as possible before ol' Mother Nature has a chance to notice their presence and do them any real harm, they haven't been forgotten. Heck, not only are they remembered I've even experienced extremely short lived periods of sympathy to those who have been relegated to playing the parts of lightning rods and oversized icicles. But those nanoseconds of sympathy are generally eased nicely into oblivion after emerging from the carcinogenic haze only to find that my clothes smell like a night at a cigar bar. Oh well, on the up side this nuisance means there are a few hardy souls still willing to finance the big tobacco settlement. For without smokers, there would be no money to pay off the big state lawsuits. So hooray for smokers!

Diatribe of 6/6/99 - Does it beep when it backs up?

Not that the rapid escalation in the size of vehicles is a bad thing, I for one was terribly worried about the profit margins of our oil conglomerates. No, it's not a bad thing, it's an appalling thing. Not from the standpoint of gas guzzling or Miata crunching for after all, who doesn't want to see a crushed Miata? What bugs me is the that the utter hugeness of these road hogging behemoths completely screens out any kind of visibility for the non-Kenworthed masses. Sure, you might have some hope of avoiding the case where you're going down the freeway without any inkling as to whether the pilot of the ocean liner in front of you is sound asleep and about to barrel into the back of traffic jam with you skiing right on in to the pileup as you're caught up in the wake. And there's also the option of moving out of the passing lane as one of these runaway locomotives comes barreling down on you, heck that even be the primary advantage of having one of these monsters. But what you can't avoid is the damn obstruction on wheels pulling up beside you so that you can't see a damn thing. Whether you're trying to back out of space in a parking lot feeling like your at the bottom of a canyon or else trying to right turn on red, you can almost always count on the presence of these towering edifices. Hence the continued escalation in vehicle sizes, it's just a bid to see what's going on. Personally, I'm waiting for the day when monster trucks become commonplace on our nations roadways. So what if I can't see anything, at least I'll still be able to park in a parking garage!

Diatribe of 5/13/99 - Password Plus this ain't

Give me Lions and Tigers and Bears (oh my) any day. It would beat the hell out of having to deal with Pins and Passwords and Passcodes (oh my). That's right folks, I'd rather deal with a large surly animal gnawing my arm off then have to 'husker du' the plethora of security codes that crop up every day. Every damn system I log onto at work has a different password, all of which are critical systems requiring the utmost in security precautions lest someone else find out just how boring the software I use really is. But I joke (as I would dearly like my employers to believe), as I can see having passwords for some stuff, after all, I wouldn't want someone else screwing up the system out of ignorance when that is my responsibility. But while the work password may be a necessary evil, the advent of on-line services for everything from health benefits to porn sites (or so I've heard), with each requiring it's own unique password, I can see the day when a person may be forced to write down a password lest they forget! The Horror! Yes, I can hear the collective gasp that this hearsay provoked, but think about it for just a moment. Do you really think that you can remember 87 unique passwords even if some of them are used only every couple of months? If so, get away from me memory boy, I can't stand your type. For myself, bring on the carnivores since I think the security people just might not put up with seeing me again. That last time around they were looking a bit bearish and I'd rather pick my own poison. Anybody know where I can rent a lion cheap?

Diatribe of 5/2/99 - Cccil B. DeMille he ain't

If you were a member of that vast majority who seem to like watching those "When Funniest Police Chases Attack" type of shows, then you wouldn't be reading this right now as I don't believe reading is high up on the list of activities that that particular majority enjoys. Of course I've caught a few glimpses of these shows myself on those rare occasions when the remote decides to die in mid-scan at an inopportune moment so my commentary on these shows is not without any background, just the minimum that slow reflexes and a banged up remote will allow. So what I see us having are literally millions of people taping every moment of the lives of those around them in the hopes that something either comedic or tragic will occur that will propel them into the forefront of moronic programming. Their preordained Andy Warhol moment if you will. I like to think that even bizarre ol' Andy would have been befuddled to understand the driving passions of these Cecil B. DeMille wannabes. So what do these people really get? Frequent trips to the store to purchase more video cassette tapes and repeated cries of "For the last time, get that &%^&*@$ camera out of my face or I'll shove it down your throat!" Now there's some footage I for one would like to see. There could even be a show dedicated to the subject: When People Sick to Death of Being Filmed Attack. Check your TV guides, it's sure to be coming soon to FOX.

Diatribe of 3/30/99 - That was a joke?

Since the two people that check out this web page on a regular basis are also on my humor distribution, I'd like to take a moment to thank both of you for never saying to me "Dean, why don't you ever send out funny jokes?" I'd remember if either of you that actually check this page more than once a millennium had said that to me because I definitely don't recall taking the time to punch either of you in the throat. Yes, the only thing more thankless than the acclaim I receive for grinding out these puerile ramblings is the 'anti-thanks' I get for mailing out jokes to people. What's that? You say you aren't familiar with the phenomena known as 'anti-thanks'? Having become an authority let me fill you in. An 'anti-thanks' is that well meaning individual that tells me one of the following:
1. I usually just delete the jokes you send without opening them.
2. Why don't you just send me the funny stuff?
Truly words of inspiration. Naturally the offer to remove the offender from distribution is met with "No, that's okay. Maybe I'll read some of them again some time. Let me know if you mail out a funny one." It just warms my heart to hear these words. Of course that warm heart comes at the cost of hazy red vision and elevated blood pressure, but it's warm nonetheless. By the way, if you're reading this then you're not one of the people that has pissed me off. I WUV YOU! Both of you even.

Diatribe of 3/13/99 - Stone knives and bearskins are looking pretty good

Nothing pisses me off quite like the Technology section that's included in my paper each Friday. Well, that's not entirely true. There's hundreds of things that piss my off in a similar manner, but this one has it's own unique acidic flavor. Yup, about once a month there's yet another damnable column where the author makes fun of the low end personal computers that are now available. He regularly makes fun of some dirt cheap Korean IBM clone that doesn't measure up to what he considers the bare minimum that anyone should settle for these days when buying a computer. Of course this same piece of junk that isn't good enough to act as a door stop would have been considered to be a super computer about 8 months ago, but that's just the pace at which the technology happens to be moving. So why does this bother me? Because my formerly "high end" machine from '95 is so far below that cheap clone that using the phrase 'stone knives and bear skins' to describe it's level of technology would be an insult to Neanderthals everywhere. There is some comfort in knowing that it won't operate at all come 1/1/2000 and that I'll be forced to go out and fight the looting throngs to buy a new machine, but the amount of comfort derived from this fact is not as great as you might think. "Hey buddy, can you spare a brick? That PC in the store window is just what I've been looking for."

Diatribe of 2/21/99 - Assault on the Speed Limit

Either my perceptive powers have increased dramatically of late or else I'm getting a little more crotchety in my inevitable decline into dotage. A new road rage inducing phenomenon has been plaguing me of late and I'd like to think that my elevated blood pressure is due rather to my over indulgence of sodium chloride based products and a keener awareness of my surroundings than the fact that people are just pissing me off more lately. This latest manifestation of the moronic motorist deals with those rectangular black and white signs that grace our nations roadways. These ubiquitous signs can be found everywhere from the tiniest suburban street to the most sprawling urban freeway. Yes, this little informational nugget is none other than the SPEED LIMIT sign. Oh sure, I have previously vilified these evil signs, but as much as I loathe to admit it they do provide a valuable service. Exactly what service is a matter of some debate, but that's a topic for another time. But getting back to the still unknown topic at hand, while I do know that the technical purpose of these signs is to provide the maximum speed, you and I well know that they really indicate the minimum speed for any vehicle capable of attaining the posted speed. So why is it so many people are incapable of achieving said speed? Why our clogged thoroughfares filled with plodding slow pokes? I don't know what hellish safety lecture they've all been to but for goodness sake people, please try to put the pedal a little closer to the metal before I'm forced to do something drastic. I will not reduce my sodium intake just so you can plod along!

Diatribe of 2/8/99 - The Urban Legend Cometh

I would like to some day personally thank each and every person that has ever taken the time to send me a warning about the Good Times Virus or one of it's inumerable cousins. Of course most people wouldn't think of being kicked repeatedly as a way of saying thanks, but I wouldn't really be kicking them; I'd actually be kissing them with my foot. Yes folks, owning a computer comes with certain responsibilities, the most important of which is to not send me fake warnings. I'm pretty sure it appears somewhere in the license agreement that no one ever reads anyway. Look for it down around line 12 thousand or so. It reads:
I will not send Dean Lenort a warning about a computer virus without first verifying that it is a real virus. I will check either www.urbanlegends.com or urbanlegends.miningco.com. If I fail to do so he will be entitled to "kiss me with his foot".
If you're curious as to what hardware/software purchase you made that included this little bit of text in the license agreement, don't come looking to me. Don't you know your hardware/software? By the way, until the world envisioned in Neal Stephenson's book, Snowcrash, becomes a reality, just reading a plain text message cannot infect your machine. I however can inflict pretty severe damage to your legs with a few well placed kicks, er, kisses.

Diatribe of 2/1/99 - Hair Balls O' Plenty

Now as everybody knows, there are a couple of different kinds of cats. Those that go "Hurk - hurk - hurk - GORK" with an added full body swing as they're coughing up that hair ball and those that go "Blach - blaaaach - blaaaaaaach - GLORCH" with minimal arching required. I of course am familiar with both styles as my cat likes to alternate between the two depending upon what kind of surface is available when the 'mood' hits her. Yes, I understand that this expectoration serves the important function of removing that glob of hair that the cat just spent a week creating, but one little aspect of this life function has been bugging me of late. The inability for the 'mood' to strike when a tiled surface is present. Why does this Red 40, Yellow 5, Blue 2, "and other color" little bundle of hurk always occur on a carpeted area? It's not like I've done a survey of other cat owners but I'm willing to give odds that even people with hard woods floors with only one postage stamp sized throw rug get to deal with this little phenomenon as well. It's probably some fiendish part of the cat agenda to some day rule the world. How exactly this serves their evil intent is beyond me and my cat isn't talking. Well, other than to occasionally say GLORCH, but that's a message I do understand.

Diatribe of 1/17/99 - Can I quote you on that?

Not having followed the NBA lockout closely I feel that I am therefore eminently qualified to hold forth on this complex topic. The disagreement supposedly involved complex issues such as long term financial viability of the league and the ability to maintain parity among the various teams. But who really followed all that technical crap? No one, that's who. All we saw were a bunch of egotistical billionaires having a hair pulling hissy fit with a bunch of oversized millionaires. Of course the owners had the distinct advantage of being fewer in number and not nearly as likely to be quoted as saying something incredibly stupid. Who can forget those fine player quotes that typically sounded something like, "I don't see how they expect us to survive financially in the system they're offering. I mean how would you go about living on just 7 million dollars a year? Oh sure, I know that sounds like a lot of money, but I have a very expensive lifestyle to maintain." That's why the deal got done. The player's union couldn't stand up to the beating it's own members were subjecting it to. Anyone who thinks they settled their differences so that the fans wouldn't have to miss a listless season followed by a pathetic limp into a tainted playoffs is even now preparing for the visit of the Easter Bunny. I shudder to think what kind of profound thoughts we would have been subjected to had the season been canceled. I for one am glad the season will commence, if not just for those bunny believers, than for the ghost of Bartlett. Heck, I reckon his corpse probably would have revved up to about 1200 rpm with the quotes we would have been subjected to.

Diatribe of 12/31/98 - Are you also frightened by your own shadow?

As the ranks of those that shouldn't even be allowed to be a passenger in a car, let alone let sit behind the wheel and operate one, continue to swell, one is often reminded of the timeless words of army drill instructors everywhere - [Bleep] you you [bleeping] [bleep]! Truly inspiring. But one particular group of the enlisted has seemed to be more prevalent than others of late - that of the timorous turtle. Yes, these are the folks that are deathly afraid of all other traffic around them and compensate for this behaviour by slowing down. This subspecies of slow-drivicus-moronicus is especially noted for it's ability to sit at a stop sign until all other approaching traffic has come to a stop so complete, that one needs a calendar to measure the movement of the vehicles. Don't these people notice that the other car is slowing? Do they attribute this slowing action to tidal forces with the assumption that the other car will speed through the sign given the slightest opportunity? Sheesh nimrod! You've been watching a little too much of those Worlds's stupidest... shows if you assume that every vehicle approaching an intersection is going to speed right through. Learn to trust others or I'll give you something to worry about! Now don't get me wrong, I'm all for driving defensively. It's even enshrined in my driving motto; "The best defense is a good offense."

Diatribe of 12/7/98 - Muzak of the damned

What could possibly be worse than the inane muzak that permeates our stores with it's horrifying sounds? What vile demon spawn could think of a torture more gruesome than the muzak bastardization of Jimmy Hendrix or Metallica? I'll tell ya what could be more gruesome, the same bad muzak interrupted every 23 seconds for a commercial. Yes folks, the Kroger grocery store I shop at not only plays damnably twisted versions of what might once have been considered music, but they have the gall to continually interrupt this horrid music with even more awful commercials. While trudging the aisles as a mindless zombie so that you can focus all of your mental energies to the Herculean effort of adjusting your mental state to block out the inappropriately dulcet tones of Foxy Lady, WKRO (now there's a truly heinous name) will break in with a blaring announcement that for the next 5 minutes there will be a special on something no one in their right mind would eat (such as creamed okra). Conversely, if there is no food-like item that they need to clear off the shelves to make room for their next ordering snafu they will instead announce that they are still committed to providing you value and service. Well one service I would value would be the elimination of the awful muzak and commercial mix that was obviously programmed by someone that should be committed! The upside to all of this is that fear has been scourged from my system. Bring on your lakes of fire for I have listened to WKRO!

Diatribe of 11/23/98 - The hardest material known to man

While my feeble power of recollection frequently comes in quite handy "I said I was going to have that to you when?", it also has the power to blank important pieces of information from my childhood. Now based on the fact that the bags my breakfast cereal comes encased in have to be measured using the Mohs Scale (and I'm not talking about them being down on the talc end of things), and that manufacturers never make anything any harder to open than it has to be, the obvious conclusion is that the easy opening cereal of my youth must surely have arrived from the store pre-staled with a full complement of scurrying insects lambadaing there way through my Cheerios. Of course it could be that the good people at Kellogg's and General Mills are only trying to fulfill some secret government standard that cereal packaging needs to be hardened to a sufficient degree that Frosted Flakes will survive a 20 megaton detonation at a distance of not more than 3 miles and still stay crunchy in non-irradiated milk. Now this idea has some merit and I have a sneaking suspicion that it just might prove to be the truth. And yes, once the truth is out how long will it be before we'll start seeing more of those post-Apocalyptic movies having scenes where the irradiated survivors sit down to a bowl of Trix. Heck, I think it'd make a great advertising campaign. I can see it now: "Silly rabbit, Trix are for mutants!"

Diatribe of 11/9/98 - Trick me once, shame on you

Being a fan of free enterprise and the 'American Ideal' I'm not violently and vehemently opposed to all types of marketing. Sure, most marketing generally leaves me violent or vehement, but rarely both. Yup, bored telephone solicitors, their cousins the recorded phone sales pitch, and the reams of junk mail that clog my mail box don't generally leave me spluttering in rage for more than a few minutes. Even the old junk e-mail, or Spam as it's commonly known, doesn't bother me too much. Heck, I enjoy getting a spammer's on-line account canceled as much as the next guy, but usually that's just too much of a bother. Just delete it unread and move on to the joke about the farmer's daughter. But one type of Spam leaves me wanting to chop the Spammer up into microscopic particles, stomp on those bits until they are too small to stomp, and then cover what's left in sulfuric acid. The type of Spam to which I refer is the refuse that comes through with a subject line such as Re: What have you been up to? or Steve asked me to send you this. That's right, these clods are worse than ol' Ed telling you that YOU MAY HAVE ALREADY WON 10 MILLION DOLLARS because at least you know that that's a load of crap without having to crack the envelopes seal. So when forced to contend with this kind of Spam I do my best to get the idiots account revoked because it's the least I can do since he (or she) went through all the trouble to trick me into reading his (or her) e-mail. Fair is fair after all.

Diatribe of 11/1/98 - Who needs a ski resort to slalom?

For the first time in my life I have a garage. Not that my car is deserving of a garage, but it's kind of nice to be able to get in the car without having to expose myself to the elemental forces of nature. But alas, I am surrounded by people of, shall we say, limited geometric capabilities. Is that a touch vague? What if I instead called them idiotic morons? Well, that might be a touch vague as well, but allow me to assure you, it is both descriptive and accurate. But returning to the case at hand allow me to describe the particular brand of idiocy that has plagued me in my newfound garagedness. As you may be aware, I live in a townhome that has a common driveway area with 5 other units. Each unit is allotted not only a garage, but also a parking space that is out by the street. Now since these are one car garages, people are sometimes forced to park additional vehicles in a somewhat less convenient spot. Yes, these additional spots are as much as 40 or 50 feet away from people's homes. Apparently a fair number of people are daunted by this distance so they part their additional vehicles in the common driveway. Now this wouldn't be so bad as said driveway is pretty wide and it only requires a rather complicated slalom course to reach the street, but this assumes that people attempt to park in a intelligent fashion. As you may have already surmised, this is not the case. Nosiree, these particular cretins park wherever and however they please frequently leaving a space that a wideish motorcycle might have a hard time getting through. I haven't been trapped in yet but I'm happily looking forward to that day. Yup, I've been waiting to relive that scene from Ben Hur and the prospect of it has me almost giddy. Of course there won't be any drums going, but I think I'll still shout Ramming Speed just before contact. Heck, I need a new car anyway.

Diatribe of 10/12/98 - Digital Cable == Digital Crap

Let me tell you of the joys of Digital Cable. Innumerable channels, special features, search capabilities, and on demand program menus. No, waitasecond. That's the marketing pitch. Let's have a little reality instead. Innumerable channels of crap you won't ever watch, useless features, a horribly complicated and marginally useful search feature, and more incorrect listings than the daily paper! Yes, these are the joys of Digital Cable. But the very bestest feature of them all is what it does to your ability video tape programs. Get this, to video tape something you need to have the converter box on and set on the channel you want to tape. This means:
1. No taping of one program while you watch another.
2. No taping of different channels while you're away.
3. Plenty of total lack of convenience and loss of capability!
I think you're going to just love the workaround though. Yup, a splitter/combiner, an AB switching box, and two short sections of coaxial cable and I'm set to go! The power of taping is once again mine and all I expect to have the coaxial spaghetti behind my TV paid off in the next couple of months! Yessiree, it's as easy as getting the flashing 12:00 off of your VCR. How hard can that be? Er, what time is it again?

Diatribe of 9/27/98 - The 'final frontier' indeed

As we all know, one of the commonly unfollowed rules of automotive spacing is that you are supposed to allow one car length for every ten miles an hour. I chuckle just thinking about this, but that's not where I'm headed today. No, I also seem to remember hearing a corollary to this rule that when you're stopping at a light you are supposed to stop when you can just make out the tires of the car in front of you over your hood. Now completely ignoring the different geometries of cars and people that make this general rule completely unworkable for a good chunk of the road raged populace, this makes pretty good sense as it's supposed to allow you to maneuver your Lincoln Town Car around the car in front of you if it should stall. Yes, a good idea. Albeit a stupid good idea. I can almost picture the immense lines of idling cars disappearing into the hazy distance as they lined up miles deep during rush hour, no one able to see let alone enter the left turn lane until practically on top of the intersection. It would be a grand sight to see but fortunately very few motorists bother to take this excessive precaution. Oh sure, there are those notable exceptions that leave a massive gap between themselves and the car in front of them. Of course the only way around this would be to install periscopes in the cars of those little old ladies that can't see over the steering wheel. Heck, I know I'd assume there was a trailer there if I couldn't see.

Diatribe of 9/16/98 - The idea is to keep your total under 21

While I didn't note any actual physical drool on the chins of any pit bosses as I was losing my way through the Las Vegas casinos this last weekend, I could sense it's presence there just below their evil grins. Their faces had a wolfish aspect as they watched some cretin plop down his cash at a blackjack table and then calmly proceed to split a pair of tens when the dealer had an eight showing. (For those of you don't know what this means, look in the dictionary under imbecile that is trying to see just how fast he can lose his money. There should be a description there.) Of course maybe they really don't want to see idiots that only understand card games where the one eyed jacks, 2s and 3s are wild rapidly losing their cash. Yeah right. I wouldn't take that bet even if I was betting wooden nickles and I had a statistician up my sleeve. No, I think they get a sadistic satisfaction in watching Johnny Simpleton pretend that he knows what he's doing in front of his new bride as he promptly loses the entire vacation budget in the first seven minutes of their honeymoon. Pit bosses do appear to be human so maybe there's a little bit of sympathy buried down deep in their black hearts. Maybe they really don't mind seeing a small time gambler win a few bucks. Yeah, and maybe all those casinos are offering $3.50 prime rib because they just want you to have an inexpensive meal. If you believe that to be the case, let's get together and play some cards, I have the perfect deck and card game in mind.

Diatribe of 9/7/98 - Mad Max had the right idea

While there are many drivers that should be forcibly hauled out of their cars and beaten over the head with a copy of the driving laws while being compelled to listen to Sammy Hagar screech I can't drive 55, I was personally reminded of one of my favorite forms of driving cretin this past weekend - The Passing Impaired. Like any relationship not regularly covered on the Jerry Springer show, there are only two parties involved. In passing, these are the passer and the passee. Since there seems to be some confusion over how the process works I shall cover a few of the highpoints. It is the job of the passer to go past the passee at a rate of speed that is greater than the speed of the passee. The passer should even consider increasing his/her speed during the actual passing time frame to help clear the road more quickly. During this process the passee should maintain his/her current rate of speed. Seems pretty simple, doesn't it? THEN WHY THE HECK CAN'T MOST PEOPLE PULL THIS OFF?!?!? Why do those idiots who are happily parked in the left lane at 1 mph over the speed limit suddenly become A. J. Foyt when you finally attempt to zip around them on the right after they've blocked you in for 10 miles? Why do so many morons actually slow down as they pass someone? And why in God's name do so many imbeciles speed up when they're overtaken? The answers to these questions would surely be of help to countless thousands of people taking high blood pressure medication, but alas, they shall go unanswered here. You shall have to instead be content to know that I'm pushing for some legislation based on my first sentence. And before you ask, of course the driving laws will be in a hard bound cover. I wouldn't want to appear soft on stupidity.

Diatribe of 8/22/98 - Glacier racing for fun and profit!

You know those cartoons where they show people in line where some of the people have either mummified or completely wasted away to dried up skeletons. "Ha ha" is probably what you say as you think about some of the awful lines you've camped in yourself. Not those concert ones of course as they don't count, no, it was for something like college class registration or a truly spectacular grocery checkout line that wrapped completely around the store. But the odd thing about those cartoons is that these cartoons are based in reality! I swear they were most definitely inspired (as was this diatribe) by the line down at the Depart of Public Safety office. Ah the true champion of lines, the one for driver's license renewal. I went there one day when the line was a wee bit longish, but having an afternoon to kill I waited a half hour or so. Once the realization that I'd only moved forward approximately 2 feet and that if I was to attain my goal I would need a geological period or two worth of time, the waiting ceased and the getting the hell out of there began. But that wasn't the worst part. No. The worst thing was that a week later, some of those faces up at the front of the line looked mighty familiar. Now I didn't see any evidence of sleeping bags or cook stoves, but that doesn't mean that there isn't some entrepreneur that doesn't show up around closing time with some tents in tow. Since I still didn't allow myself enough time I'll be returning again soon. I hope that cute blonde that was still an epoch or two from getting to the counter hasn't gone gray yet.

Diatribe of 8/9/98 - Not exactly a soothing sound

There are so many things that we rarely ever think about. How our mail gets from point A to point C, and then rerouted a week later to it's actual destination, point B. How the groceries make their treacherous route from Farmer Brown's fields to your Swanson Brand Salisbury Steak dinner. Or how the grass always seems so immaculately clipped at your local golf course when you never see it being mowed. Well, the hidden mysteries of this last little item are hidden no more. Nosiree, while I may have been too bleary eyed to have seen what happens I damn well have heard what happens. Yup, the reason you never see them doing any mowing is that they do their mowing at the crack of dawn. Every single morning the mowers are out making sure that Howard Hacker doesn't have to deal with an errant blade of grass that could make him complain about how the grass added a dozen strokes to his round. Go ahead and give Howard a much needed excuse and let me sleep in. But if you have to mow then I suppose you have to mow. Maybe you could at least make me a promise that you won't need to chainsaw any more trees in the wee hours. A promise like that and I'll happily listen to the relatively soothing sounds of mowing. And those big rocks will stop appearing in the middle of the fairway. Not that I know anything about them, just call it a hunch.

Diatribe of 7/27/98 - Bob Fosse couldn't teach these guys anything

The epitome of the choreographic arts in action is a wonder to behold. The fluid grace of a carefully rehearsed spin, the performer released from his partner's embrace to gracefully slam his head into the turnbuckle. You didn't think I was talking about modern dance or - worse yet - the ballet, did you? Heck no. If I'm going to talk choreography I'm damn well going to talk about the best there is, pro wrestling. But woe is me, where are the Mad Dog Voshon's and Baron Von Rashke's of my youth? Gone. Replaced by pretty long haired beach boys that don't carry the proud paunch of the wrestlers of yore. (Those of you that may have come across the accursed WCW Nitro or some such may not think of these brutish beasts as pretty boys, but then again, if you had ever seen Mad Dog or the Baron you would know what I mean.) These strutting turkeys and their carefully crafted moves owe their livelihoods to those that long ago invented those moves. Wrestlers working long into the night to create moves where horrible injury seemed certain while in actuality contact was rare. What genius is must have taken to weave the magical spell of pro wrestling. But was it genius? Could it have just been hard work? No, the answer my friends is really much more simple. It resides in the heads of those that believe this tripe is real. That is the where the true magic lies. Yup, cretins make so much possible, but nowhere is that more true than in the world of pro wrestling. So the next time you catch a glimpse of Saturday Night Raw, thank the cretin that made it all possible.

Diatribe of 7/14/98 - Slippery Chicken State Polytechnical Institute?

Exactly how many colleges and universities are there in this country? My initial thought is that there are too friggin many, but not wanting to be judgmental I'll do a little research. Being too lazy to go on line and try and find the actual information, the information shall instead be inferred based on the empirical evidence at hand. Okay, according to a lame software package in my possession the most expensive four-year institutions, including tuition, mandatory fees, and college room and board in 1993-1994 were, Sarah Lawrence College ($25,900); Brandeis University ($25,655); Barnard College ($25,492); Bard College ($25,184); Yale University ($25,110); Tufts University ($24,962); Hampshire College ($24,930); Bennington College ($24,850). Okay. I've heard of two of those and why I've heard of Tufts is anyone's guess. Let's look at today's paper. The Sports section to be exact. From there we learn that Baruch has decided to participate in women's club soccer and softball! Bryant has named an assistant football coach, and Mercyhurst has named a woman as the new assistant softball and women's volleyball coach! What conclusion can we draw? That there are a buttload of colleges and universities out there, many of which probably have a smaller total population than my PSYCH 1001 class, and a lot of them have funny and obscure names. Works for me.

Diatribe of 7/3/98 - M.C. Escher - Architect

Having helped two different people move over the last two days has not only made me sore and tired, it has also boiled my bile. Not that my bile is ever far below the surface, but that fine simmering boil was lacking until now. And what has my bile in an effervescent fervor? Could it be a large hide-a-bed that weighs as much as Oprah on a bad day? Could it possibly be that solid wood china cabinet that not only has no hand holds, but also puts the late Orson Welles to shame in the celestial attraction department? Nope. If people want to be rude enough to buy solid oak as opposed to a quality laminated particle board then I say more power to 'em. No, I reserve my scorn for the idiotic numskulls that make up our architectural community. Yup, just as is almost always the case, items that are pretty much normal sized have to be ever so carefully maneuvered through hobbit-like doorways and choked down constricted stairwells. Who designs these apartment complexes? Former jockeys? If it's not a jockey then it's someone that has a vested interest in large numbers of wall scrapings. Perhaps it's just good old fashioned sadism. Nothing says cruelty like trying to wedge a dresser though a doorway that has a wall only 28 inches away. If I ever meet an architect that designs apartment complexes I'm sure he's going to be a bit surprised by that punch to the throat. But after all it's the least I can do. Heck, he's probably a masochist anyway.

Diatribe of 6/14/98 - What gleam off yon skull breaks?

As my body starts to fail and my memory totters down that Alzheimer's road, it is scant small comfort to me to know that my hair led the way. I can still remember it oh so clearly during my college years when people would do the great kindness of letting me know that I was getting a little thin on top. Not being the Fists of Fury type I let these remarks go by with only a casual snarl and a muffled curse. Yup, happy go lucky, that's me. But couldn't this indignity have at least waited a few more years? But no, I guess this particular aspect of the rich pageant was a bit anxious to establish an early lead out of the starting gate. The slight solace I get from being too tall for most people to see my tonsurelike pate is more than compensated for when those same people see the top of my head. Ah yes, the familiar "Hey Dean, this the first I got to see just how bald you are. Wow!" has somehow lost it's charms. As for the baldness itself, I too am one to mock those men that comb a single incredibly long hair in a complex spiral around their head in a vain attempt to appear follicled. It is to laugh. Although the laughter isn't coming quite as readily to my lips as it used to. That particular siren song is starting to reach my uncovered ears. What's the name of that new pill again?

Diatribe of 6/1/98 - They don't shoot dogs, do they?

Don't get me wrong. Being a tall white male I'm as much in favor of the double standard as the next tall white guy, but some of 'em really tick me off. A personal favorite that comes readily to mind is that imposed on us by our local gas stations. You know how it happens. A little turmoil arises in the middle east, say something relatively mild like Saddam saying he's going to kill all the American pigs like dogs in the street, and the next thing you know oil prices go up a couple of bucks a barrel. The next thing you know you're pounded by the sonic booms of the gas station service trucks that are responsible for updating the gas prices as they swoop in for the 5 cent a gallon upswings. Of course the reason the price went up is that they base the gasoline prices on "replacement costs", not on the cost of what's sitting in their storage tank. Perhaps you've noticed that when the converse happens, that the oil prices actually drop, the updates are just a tad bit slower arriving. I've never read one of these press releases but I'll bet that it has to do with the higher cost of the gas they have on hand. These guys could give Orwell lessons. So remember, doublespeak isn't just the sole purvey of the politicians, they're just the experts.

Diatribe of 5/17/98 - How many servings per container?

One of these days it'll happen. I'll wolf down some pre-packaged box of pasta and sauce and find that I've just consumed 12 servings worth of food at 430 calories per serving. Not that I haven't come close already, but achieving the above mentioned bit of gluttony has thus far eluded my grasp. This of course begs the question about how the manufacturers arrive at their serving sizes. Do they bring in a panel of waifish supermodels and ask them what they think an appropriate serving size might be? I can just see one of these hollow cheeked stick persons saying in a thick foreign accent, "Oh no, I think 3 and a half ounces is more than most anyone could eat." Of course the most outrageous packaging used to be (they've changed it) on a can of diet Coke where it would tell you that each can had two servings. I'm sorry but has anyone here really felt that a whole can is too much (supermodels disqualified from answering)? Who hasn't finished off a bag of chips to discover that they've just consumed 18 servings? Or seen listed on a package something like- Serving Size: 2 ounces or about 3 peanuts. What a joke! When I own my packaging firm I'm going to help the people feel good about themselves by listing the information in terms most people won't understand. Anybody up for e² servings of Cheezits?

Diatribe of 5/1/98 - On the Highway to Hell

Did you know that cigarette butts are so highly biodegradable that they dissolve into virtually nothing after only two days? Well neither did I, but after watching so many smokers throw their butts on the sidewalk/street/lake I figured this must be a common misconception. And even though the materials appear to be completely different, I believe the same assumption must also hold true for the plastic wrapper that the pack comes in as well as the package itself. As often as these cancerous little bits of Americana get tossed out of windows I'm surprised that some stop lights don't have huge mounds of smoker's refuse blocking the intersection. Of course these little litterers are by no means the champs. No, that 'honor' is reserved for those cretins who drive down the highway with their loose load of garbage in the back of their pickup truck. Honest mistake? Hardly. The assumption I make here is that these cretins don't have garbage pickup and since they don't want to cough up the few bucks required at a landfill, they just drive around until all the light stuff has blown away. There's nothing like intercepting a steady stream of Jack in the Box wrappers and used Kleenex on your grill as you're cruising down the freeway. Unless of course it's a lit cigarette butt. That does have it's own special charms.

Diatribe of 4/19/98 - Cheesasaurus Rex, Where art thou?

Well Kraft, did I complain when you changed the Macaroni and Cheese freebies system from 'proofs of purchase' to 'points' and jacked up the 'price' of all the items by two or three fold? (Well yes, I did, but not in a diatribe.) Did I complain when your commercials became not only lame, but insipid as well? (See previous disclaimer). Nay! I held my tongue and while you committed crime after crime. But here my silence ends! I will stand by no longer while you perpetrate this heinous abortion of justice on the Mac and Cheese eating public! I demand that you start putting some decent Mac and Cheese prizes on the boxes once again! I have enrolled friends in the Kraft Cheese and Macaroni club (Hi Mark), I have sent people Cheesasaurus Rex figurines (Hi Sis), and I have even gotten myself a Cheesasaurus Rex T-Shirt that is one of my true prized possessions. But what has the recent past had to offer? For years it seemed there were no freebies to be had at all. Just lame advertisements adorned the box where a host of fabulous prizes once proudly stood. But now the prizes are back. And what kind of prizes are they? After long months of waiting for a decent offer to once again appear, what do you finally come up with? A magnetic picture frame. Yuck. Of course it could just be that the cowards are afraid to offer anything up after all this time. My stockpile of 'points' alone is enough to empty a middlin' sized warehouse.

Diatribe of 4/12/98 - I cannot tell a lie, I felled it out of sheer spite!

Well thank you very much city of Nassau Bay (<-- Sarcasm). It's not enough that you have to take over my Saturday basketball court for the ill-conceived (and I hope poorly attended) Russian/American Festival, but do you really have to cut down the basketball goals? The occasional event that makes the gang downmode to an alternate court is fine, but at least the Schmidt family reunion leaves the pavilion as they found it. Oh sure, there might be a little leftover knockwurst left to grace the court and act as a potential slipping hazard, but that's all a part of the outdoor game. Like the famous saying goes; one man's pulled groin muscle is another man's uncontested layup. I was given to understand that last year you cut down a goal so that a stage could be erected on one end of the court. This makes sense. Albeit a sort of twisted sense. But why in Lenin's name did you chop down both goals this year? Was there some sort of battle of the bands that required two stages? I can see it now, Russian and American bands taking part in a rousing rendition of Dueling Banjos. This is Texas after all. Or was it that having a goal at one end and a three foot stump at the other upset people's sense of artistic balance last year? Whatever your reasons quit screwing around and get the goals back up. You don't want us thirty something year old engineers wandering the streets looking for things to do with our Saturday mornings. We're liable to take up doing home improvement projects and I don't think anyone wants to contemplate what that could lead to.

Diatribe of 3/31/98 - Could you speed it up a bit buddy?

I really do hate leaving late for work. Now the reasons for this could take many forms. From the old 'I don't want to have to stay late to make up the hours' to 'There's some stuff I have to get done this morning'. Of course anyone who knows me wouldn't be fooled by such reasons as these as they don't have even a nodding acquaintance with the truth. No, I hate going into work late because the morning rush hour is over and traffic will invariable suck. Huh? you might rightfully ask. You read it right the first time, once rush hour is over the tortoise hour is ushered in. Don't tell me you've never noticed this little off-hour driver phenomenon? Allow me to elaborate. When you're on your caffeine deprived and lethargic (yet somehow maniacal) way to work each morning you at least have the comfort of being locked in traffic with people of a like mind. People who aren't afraid to run over a family member if doing so will get them to work an extra 8 seconds early. My kind of people. But miss rush hour and you'll instead have to contend with the retired hordes wending their way to a late breakfast at Denny's or, even worse, you'll be trapped behind some service drone who'd rather make his hourly gouge behind the wheel of a truck than actually servicing something. So give me your tired, your angry, your honking masses; they're at least speaking my language.

Diatribe of 3/24/98 - Killer sharks wearing bikinis, tonight on Eye Action News

Oh boy. Another round of 'sweeps weeks' coming up on the local news. Just lovely. You know what this means. News stories will inevitably cover topics similar to the following:
1. Strip clubs and the dancers who work there - Do they consider it a career?
2. Is the air you breather killing you? Probably - Watch our special report and find out how much time you have left
3. Sure fire Lottery Riches - Why aren't you a millionaire yet?
Yes, while these weighty topics are worthy of our full attention, I just sometimes get the impression that things turn just a bit more Springeresque during sweeps. From the guy that will demonstrate how to escape from a car sinking in deep water (Yes, they really did this), to the endless special reports on the big changes in bikini styles, sweeps weeks seem to provide anything but news. I guess the lowest common denominator really does drive the ol' Nielson wagon. Oh well, as long as the bikini laden Spring Break stories keep coming I won't complain too much.

Diatribe of 3/15/98 - The really heavy stuff shouldn't come down for a while yet

How does the song go again? I think it's something like this:
Oh, the weather outside is frightful
So some softball would be delightful
As long as they can see the ball
The game - we won't call - we won't call - we won't call
Actually, playing softball with light snow flurries is still preferable to those games played in the mud pit that sometimes passes itself off as a field. And how about those wonderful times where we've stood huddled under the one tiny shelter available while the rain is pouring down with such intensity that animals start pairing up and heading for the marina - and still the umpires are debating whether it just might let up enough to play. Hey ump, this is a recreational league and our desire to get the game off in less than ideal conditions cannot be measured with the crude instruments available today. So cut us some slack and call the game. More importantly, when the weather is really bad, it makes it nearly impossible to sit around and finish off the beer after the game.
Please note I said nearly. We do have some pride.

Diatribe of 3/8/98 - March Madness is a pretty good name for it

Who is it exactly that enjoys listening to Dick Vitale? As has been discussed previously in this August forum there are a lot of weird little factions that taken as a whole make me want to open fire with a... No, that's not it. Hmm... how about ...taken as a whole make up this big blue marble we call Earth (that should be a bit more palatable). When you consider that there must be some pretty good sized clumps of humanity that are willing to not only watch the pabulum that passes for network television, but will actually buy the products advertised therein it can't be too hard to imagine that a few more fringe type groups exist. I suppose that the one little group of people that enjoy being beaten with riding crops while having hot pokers applied to their person while watching SeaQuest might also enjoy Mr. Vitale in some freakish way. For me, March Madness implies that tenuous grip that I maintain on my sanity as I listen to Dick wax orgiastically about some of the breathtaking college matchups that are coming in the next few weeks. Of course it really could be worse. Just imagine a team of Vitale and John Madden providing color commentary. Now there's a match truly made in Hades.

Go back to where it all began or perhaps you might want to peruse the Diatribe index.
Or you could visit Volume I , Volume II or Volume III of the archives.