perfidy

Dave at Garfield Ridge links to an internet classic that I had somehow missed: the Evil Overlord To-Do-List.

My personal favorites:

4. Shooting is not too good for my enemies.
12. One of my advisors will be an average five-year-old child. Any flaws in my plan that he is able to spot will be corrected before implementation.
29. I will dress in bright and cheery colors, and so throw my enemies into confusion.
53. If the beautiful princess that I capture says "I'll never marry you! Never, do you hear me, NEVER!!!", I will say "Oh well" and kill her.

As a technical writer by trade, I cannot help but appreciate this one:

57. Before employing any captured artifacts or machinery, I will carefully read the owner's manual.

While we're on the subject of internet classics, one of the best is the 213 things Skippy is no longer allowed to do in the US Army. There are also some other submissions by skippy's fans here. A sample of Skippy's list:

7. Not allowed to add “In accordance with the prophesy” to the end of answers I give to a question an officer asks me.
35. Not allowed to sing “High Speed Dirt” by Megadeth during airborne operations. (“See the earth below/Soon to make a crater/Blue sky, black death, I'm off to meet my maker”)
54. “Napalm sticks to kids” is *not* a motivational phrase.
58. The following words and phrases may not be used in a cadence- Budding sexuality, necrophilia, I hate everyone in this formation and wish they were dead, sexual lubrication, black earth mother, all Marines are latent homosexuals, Tantric yoga, Gotterdammerung, Korean hooker, Eskimo Nell, we've all got jackboots now, slut puppy, or any references to squid.
60. “The Giant Space Ants” are not at the top of my chain of command.
66. There is no “Anti-Mime” campaign in Bosnia.
83. Must not start any SITREP (Situation Report) with "I recently had an experience I just had to write you about...."
84. Must not use military vehicles to “Squish” things.
137. Should not show up at the front gate wearing part of a Russian uniform, messily drunk.
138. Even if my commander did it.
167. Not allowed to operate a business out of the barracks.
168. Especially not a pornographic movie studio.
169. Not even if they *are* “especially patriotic films”
177. I am not to refer to a formation as “the boxy rectangle thingie”.
181. Pokémon® trainer is not an MOS.
191. Our Humvees cannot be assembled into a giant battle-robot.
202. Despite the confusing similarity in the names, the "Safety Dance" and the "Safety Briefing" are never to be combined.

On her way to the hospital to have a baby, Debbie Coleman of Kettering, Ohio had to stop at a filling station to, um, deliver the child. She then sped toward the hospital to recieve whatever care she could at that late hour.

The Dayton police received a call about the incident and somehow concluded that "squirting forth her issue upon this earth" meant "she stole a van." Later, a driver called 911 to report a woman trying to throw a baby out a van window. The Dayton police, seeing "commendation" and "this gonna be on COPS" written all over the incident, made sure to have their guns drawn when they pulled Coleman over.

Then everyone had a laugh over the misunderstanding and the cops went back to their cars and escorted her to the hospital while the credits rolled and the theme played. You can't make this shit up. Ohio: I love you.

Hat tip to Edog, who also notes the sad passing of comedian/junkie Mitch Hedberg.

I got an ant farm. Them fellas didn't grow shit.

Last week I helped my friend stay put. It's a lot easier than helping someone move. I just went over to his house and made sure that he did not start to load shit into a truck.

I got my hair highlighted, because I felt some strands were more important than others.

I had a stick of Carefree gum, but it didn't work. I felt pretty good while I was blowing that bubble, but as soon as the gum lost its flavor, I was back to pondering my mortality.

I want to be a race car passenger: just a guy who bugs the driver. "Say man, can I turn on the radio? You should slow down. Why do we gotta keep going in circles? Can I put my feet out the window? Boy, you really like Tide."

I got in an argument with a girlfriend inside of a tent. That's a bad place for an argument, because I tried to walk out, and had to slam the flap.

I type a 101 words a minute. But it's in my own language.

I don't have a girlfriend. But I do know a woman who'd be mad at me for saying that.

I'm against picketing, but I don't know how to show it.

I was walking down the street with my friend and he said "I hear music." As if there's any other way to take it in.

At my hotel room, my friend came over and asked to use the phone. I said "Certainly." He said "Do I need to dial 9?" I say "Yeah. Especially if it's in the number. You can try four and five back to back real quick."

My lucky number is four billion. That doesn't come in real handy when you're gambling. "Come on, four billion! Fuck. Seven. I need more dice."

I love blackjack. But I'm not addicted to gambling. I'm addicted to sitting in a semi circle.

I don't own a cell phone or a pager. I just hang around everyone I know, all the time.

I used to do drugs. I still do drugs. But I used to, too.

The thing about tennis is: no matter how much I play, I'll never be as good as a wall. I played a wall once. They're fucking relentless.

I would imagine if you could understand Morse Code, a tap dancer would drive you crazy.

I went to the park and saw this kid flying a kite. The kid was really excited. I don't know why, that's what they're supposed to do. Now if he had had a chair on the other end of that string, I would have been impressed.

As Patton and Buckethead have pointed out, the whole Terri Schiavo case is shrouded in uncertainty. Luckily many of us have various scriptures we can consult for solace; if we are humble enough to know that we don't know, we may still need some help accepting that fact. Or we may just need to seek out some understanding; a framework for comprehending.

My scripture is a little different from yours, I'll bet, but if you read on you can find in it many parallels, many keys to understanding the Schiavo case. Or am I just shining you on?
POINT DUME -- DAY

It is a high, wind-swept bluff. Walter and the Dude walk
towards the lip of the bluff. Parked in the background is
one lonely car, Walter's.

Walter is carrying a bright red coffee can with a blue plastic
lid. When they reach the edge the two men stand awkwardly
for a beat. Finally:

WALTER
I'll say a few words.

The Dude clasps his hands in front of him. Walter clears
his throat.

WALTER
Donny was a good bowler, and a good
man. He was. . . He was one of us.
He was a man who loved the outdoors,
and bowling, and as a surfer explored
the beaches of southern California
from Redondo to Calabassos. And he
was an avid bowler. And a good
friend. He died--he died as so many
of his generation, before his time.
In your wisdom you took him, Lord.
As you took so many bright flowering
young men, at Khe San and Lan Doc
and Hill 364. These young men gave
their lives. And Donny too. Donny
who. . . who loved bowling.

Walter clears his throat.

WALTER
And so, Theodore--Donald--Karabotsos,
in accordance with what we think
your dying wishes might well have
been, we commit your mortal remains
to the bosom of.

Walter is peeling the plastic lid off the coffee can.

WALTER
the Pacific Ocean, which you loved
so well.

AS HE SHAKES OUT THE ASHES:

WALTER
Goodnight, sweet prince.

The wind has blown all of the ashes into the Dude, standing
just to the side of and behind Walter. The Dude stands,
frozen. Finished eulogizing, Walter looks back.

WALTER
Shit, I'm sorry Dude.

He starts brushing off the Dude with his hands.

WALTER
Goddamn wind.

Heretofore motionless, the Dude finally explodes, slapping
Walter's hands away.

DUDE
Goddamnit Walter! You fucking
asshole!

WALTER
Dude! Dude, I'm sorry!

The Dude is near tears.

DUDE
You make everything a fucking
travesty!

WALTER
Dude, I'm--it was an accident!

The Dude gives Walter a furious shove.

DUDE
What about that shit about Vietnam!

WALTER
Dude, I'm sorry--

DUDE
What the fuck does Vietnam have to
do with anything! What the fuck
were you talking about?!

Walter for the first time is genuinely distressed, almost
lost.

WALTER
Shit Dude, I'm sorry--

DUDE
You're a fuck, Walter!

He gives Walter a weaker shove. Walter seems dazed, then
wraps his arms around the Dude.

WALTER
Awww, fuck it Dude. Let's go bowling.

Just a quick reminder to scroll down and see the latest entry in the perfidy dorkorama. Or just click here and see my rejoinder to Johno's impressively dorky Space Camp tale of woe. Vote for your favorite...

Surfing around the web at lunch today, I ran across this gem on Ace of Spades:

Since we were kids, we always enjoyed the humorous and sometimes poetic group-names given to different animals. It was interesting to us that one said a school of fish but a pack of wolves; it was delightful that one said a parliament of owls and an exultation of larks. A shrewdness of apes, a crash of rhinoceroses, an ostentation of peacocks-- just grand poetry.

And of course it was just flat-out cool that one said a murder of crows.

But this practice was also extended to naming groups of people. One could say a skulk of thieves (cool!), a rascal of boys (cute!), and, if one could keep a straight face, a neverthriving of jugglers (goofy!). More of these are found here; we don't know if we'll ever actually say a superfluidity of nuns, but it's nice to know that we could, if we wanted to...

... from the Home Office in Pocatello, Idaho...

Top Ten Lesser-Known Collective Nouns for Different Groups of People

10. A gesticulation of Italians

9. A corruption of Congressmen

8. A moustache of policemen

7. A tumescence of pornstars

6. A shriek of liberals

5. A waddle of Rosie O'Donnells

4. An armpit of feminists

3. An insignificance of Canadians

2. A malodor of Frenchmen (also acceptable: a quavering of Frenchmen; a surrender of Frenchmen)

...and the Number One Lesser-Known Collective Noun for a Group of People...

1. A crimewave of Kennedys

Honorable Mentions:

A doddering of seniors

A twaddle of Democrats

A condescension of reporters

A kegger of collegians

A genocide of Germans

A trust-fund of "peace" marchers

A hypervapidity of Maureen Dowd

We might add a grumble of conservatives, and a bickering of libertarians.

I have two meetings I attend every week.

One of them is the staff meeting for just the folks from my shop, all three of us. It never lasts under an hour, which is not my fault because I never have more than about 2 minutes of stuff to say. The other meeting is for the major folks but both my boss-lady and my boss-man like us represented there, so I'm usually there. With the boss-lady there too, more often than not, so it's not like she's shamming or anything.

At the latter meeting, I rarely have anything substantive to contribute. Not because I don't work, but because everyone pretty much knows what I do. They also know that if anything I've done the previous week had any bearing on them, they'd know about it by then. So unless I have a report or other knowledge that relates to a majority of the group, I don't say much. But again, without contributing to the madness, this meeting lasts an hour without trying. One recent session was closing in on the 2 hour mark, which is about when I start wondering about either chewing my leg off to free myself from the conference table and making a bloody, lurching try for the door; or just waiting for the hypothermia to finish me off quietly, in a boardroom that is always 10 degrees colder than the coldest spot in the building.

But even if I might be a touch taciturn at the meeting, it doesn't mean I don't do anything. Like last week, when I calculated how many hours per year I spend in meetings.

Granted I had to go with rough numbers and a few estimates. I also nearly forgot about the monthly full staff meeting, which is often a reprise of one of the other meetings I'd been to; I just get to hear it again but a longer version, earlier in the morning, and with doughnuts.

So based on my best guess, I spend at minimum 72 hours annually in meetings. I did make some guesses about vacation time, holidays, and postponed or cancelled meetings, but even if everything broke against me, it shouldn't edge past 80 hours.

In essence, nearly 2 weeks of paid work time annually is sitting in a conference room listening...ok, pretending to listen...to alot of stuff that has little impact on my day-to-day existence.

I'm not really complaining, so much as I'm sharing my surprise at my findings.

Apart from that HIV test you've been puttin' off, the Zombie Survival Test is the most important test you will ever take. The truth is, whether or not you have HIV, you can still be eaten by a zombie. Aside from the threat to humanity presented by the giant space robots who wish to enslave us, the coming zombie apocalypse is the most imminent peril facing civilization as we know it. Not Islamism. Not nuclear holocaust. Not arteriosclerosis. Not dread Chtulu and his minions. Zombies.

It is time for all Perfidy minions and multitudinous readers to find out: are you a survivor, or are you a spare*?

Find out here.

I for one will make it out alive. Are you coming with, or do I have to shoot you in the thigh?

Official Survivor
Congratulations! You scored 73%!

Whether through ferocity or quickness, you made it out. You made the right choice most of the time, but you probably screwed up somewhere. Nobody's perfect, at least you're alive.

My test tracked 1 variable How you compared to other people your age and gender:

You scored higher than 88% on survivalpoints

Link: The Zombie Scenario Survivor Test written by ci8db4uok on Ok Cupid

[wik] Minister Buckethead explains "the spare" thusly:

In any sufficiently large group of people, one person will be the spare. To determine who the spare is, imagine that the group is in this situation: You are being chased by brain eating zombies. They are gaining on you. You have a shotgun with one shell. The spare is the person you shoot in the leg so that the zombies stop to eat, allowing you to escape. Once consensus is reached that you are the spare, there is no appeal. If by chance your group is chased by zombies, and you sacrifice your spare, a new spare must be chosen.

[wik] Big time thanks to Michele.

Not that anybody but Minister GeekLethal, NDR, and brdgt know this guy, but congratulations to my good friend and freshly minted Ph.D., Christoph, who will start next year as Assistant Professor of History in the University of Massachusetts system. He has worked harder than I ever intend to, and heavens! It's paid off!

Sure it's great that we have International Womyn's Day; certainly it's amusing that in its frenzied attempt to be PC, IKEA has twisted its panties all in a bunch. But here is one for the guys: International Steak and BJ Day. The name says it all.

So it turns out the revolutionary new nonsteroidal, safe-for-use-every-day treatment for the eczema that makes my hands crack 'n' bleed all the year round that I've been using diligently like it's my job for the last eighteen months might give me cancer instead.

Dammit!

Yesterday was apparently International Women's Day. Oops. If missing my own wife's anniversary or birthday is bad, then missing International Women's Day is, like... a billion times worse or something.

In recognition of the women of the world, I reproduce here Sojourner Truth's famous "Ain't I A Woman" speech given at the Woman's Convention in Akron, Ohio in 1851. (By the way, Ohio was the first state to see a Constitutional challenge to the disenfranchisement of women in, I believe, 1852. Even though it didn't work out for the ladies, this is proof that not all Ohioans have been dumb.)

Well, children, where there is so much racket there must be something out of kilter. I think that 'twixt the negroes of the South and the women at the North, all talking about rights, the white men will be in a fix pretty soon. But what's all this here talking about?

That man over there says that women need to be helped into carriages, and lifted over ditches, and to have the best place everywhere. Nobody ever helps me into carriages, or over mud-puddles, or gives me any best place! And ain't I a woman? Look at me! Look at my arm! I have ploughed and planted, and gathered into barns, and no man could head me! And ain't I a woman? I could work as much and eat as much as a man - when I could get it - and bear the lash as well! And ain't I a woman? I have borne thirteen children, and seen most all sold off to slavery, and when I cried out with my mother's grief, none but Jesus heard me! And ain't I a woman?

Then they talk about this thing in the head; what's this they call it? [member of audience whispers, "intellect"] That's it, honey. What's that got to do with women's rights or negroes' rights? If my cup won't hold but a pint, and yours holds a quart, wouldn't you be mean not to let me have my little half measure full?

Then that little man in black there, he says women can't have as much rights as men, 'cause Christ wasn't a woman! Where did your Christ come from? Where did your Christ come from? From God and a woman! Man had nothing to do with Him.

If the first woman God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down all alone, these women together ought to be able to turn it back , and get it right side up again! And now they is asking to do it, the men better let them.

Obliged to you for hearing me, and now old Sojourner ain't got nothing more to say.

Isn't that the shit?

Here, offered without comment, are some of the names on the spam emails I have recently received:

Stench T. Franchiser
Haiti L. Disgruntles
Tinning J. Whews
Curviest V. Extempores
Decrescendo A. Twirler
Post T. Menopause
Kindling K. Nark
Other G. Militating
Heinous S. Armory
Slattern J. Yellows
Organ I. Offal
Tinier V. Bucksaw
Nymphomania O. Augusts
Pumps K. Dredger
Siam H. Stretchy
Curfew L. Lifework
Cybernetics L. Appallingly
Intolerant V. Shack
Roadrunner J. Derivations
Implosion P. Matterhorn
Clownishness I. Serenity
Chaperones G. Readjusting
Cochran J. Cardsharps
Grandiloquence L. Bloodstained
Eyewitness H. Bunsen
Cranium T. Capabilities
Paroxysm P. Soy
Milliner I. Pliable
Ecliptic F. Prejudice
Granules S. Gallic
Hornblower Q. Cadging
Tapering P. Waterbury
Renting O. Eratosthenes
Emotionally H. Pram
Solon O. Disassembling
Southerner M. Blameworthy
Major D. Unfurls
Nubian O. Socket
Mormon P. Hedgerow
Jane J. Vulgarity

[wik]And this just in, two more:

Spastic I. Bogeymen
Fibrous G. Rumpus

Home with the flu, and the pulmonologist is taking a longshot flyer on a rare fungus that lives in the Ohio River Valley. And a couple other things.

The flu? F*$#!

On the bright side, at least I can catch up on my reading.

[wik] Oh bitch, bitch, bitch.

then this is in fact the greatest essay ever written. (Warning: site and essay contain some moderately porny content that may not be worksafe if you work for a pack of bluenoses.)

In our intrepid pursuit of erudition, we can do worse than to take the example of the linked anonymous essayist and give shout outs to olives, Lenny Kravitz, and anal sex by way of explicating Oedipus Rex.

Via bookslut, whom I am blogrolling..... nnnnnow.

Thanks to Geeklethal for his apt dubbing of my ongoing and frustrating illness as "Promentalshitbackwashpsychosis." I would however quibble with his characterization of my malady as Dickensian. "Dickensian" implies a certain grimy romanticism (or anti-romanticism) as well as a finite endpoint when the ill person keels over in a poignant and oddly wordy episode. "Dickensian" illnesses tended to be of the tubercular variety, and what I gots is not that. Sure I have been subject to an endless parade of coughs, catarrahs, chest infections, head colds, and bizarre symptoms nearly never seen in a male of my age and general health. But that's not "Dickensian."

I prefer to think of my illness as "Eggersian" after postmodernist novelist David Eggers, whose "A Hearbreaking Work of Staggering Genuis" is the only library book I have ever thrown across a room in disgust. "Wallacian" is also in the running, as in David Foster Wallace's interminable cocktease of a novel, "Infinite Jest," in which the joke was on the reader for sticking with Wallace through 1200 pages of densely footnoted disquisition on tennis, homelessness, and handicapped Quebecois separatists. But, since Eggers is more or less the father of that foul genre, "Eggersian" it is. Like his books, my ongoing sickness is endless, indeterminate, undiagnosable, enervating, incredibly frustrating, and ultimately halfway debilitating. Halfway? Yes, halfway. It's difficult for me to say whether walking a couple miles on any given day will leave me feeling invigorated or like I've just been tied in a bag and beaten with saps.

But all that is just so much pointyheaded wankery. Since the doctors seem to be at a loss as to what's wrong with me (the current wisdom is to give it a month to see if things clear up or if a tumor et. al. grows to diagnosable size), owing to the "goddamnit, what-now" factor currently in play regarding my health (this week: pneumonia! next week: sinus infection! every week: mystery fluids emanating from parts inside whence they oughtn't!), I suggest that the proper name of my at this point ten week old illness is "Bohica." As in "Bend Over, Here It Comes Again." A beeg thanks to my father, Chainsaw Mick for the coinage. He's a quality chap even if he fails to see the malicious genius of Dale Earnhardt, Jr.'s driving style in favor of Jeff Gordon's clean-race skills.

Anyway, just so you know. Not that you wanted to know, but I figured I had to explain my very light posting somehow. We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

[wik] GeekLethal is on to something with his random-media-player blogging. For some reason, my 111 CD changer fixates on two songs on Josh Rouse's album "Dressed Up Like Nebraska" even when I move the disc to a new location. Ditto track one of Iqbal Jogi & Company's "The Passion of Pakistan," a caterwauly festival of unearthly Dervish sounds that in small amounts add spice to a music mix but if heard too frequently grow, shall we say, extraordinarily tiresome. What the heck?

[alsø wik] Bitch, bitch, bitch. How does Gary Farber keep it together?

Six weeks sick.
Tired all the time.
A 30 year old with a senior's symptom-- a persistent pleural effusion just hangin' out outside my left lung-- creating shortness of breath and back pain.
Two rounds of X-rays.
Two CAT scans.
Two rounds of blood tests.
A complete physical.

And all I can say for sure is it's not caused by pneumonia or a pulmonary embolism, and that I probably don't have HIV, lupus, or cancer. Probably. Or mono. Probably. Third round of blood tests come back today; if they end up naming a disease after me I'll be pissed.

So please excuse me if I don't post much on the interweb.

Tell me if this doesn't sound like the king of all funny to you!
(And, if you're not careful, you might learn something before it's through. )

[wik] Speaking of Bill Cosby (who the hell mentioned Bill Cosby?), it turns out he's being accused of working blue in real life.

In my previous post I had said that mail remained undelivered to portions of Eastern Massachusetts. That is not strictly true.

We Await Silent Tristero's Empire.

*wink*

I've seen 38 inches of snow before. I'm from the snow belt of Ohio, where the dreaded "Lake Effect" picks up measurable portions of Lake Erie and dumps it in granular form over a huge swath of countryside from Cleveland to Niagara Falls. In Ohio, 38 inches of snow is a lot, make no mistake, but there's a difference between the big snows of my childhood and the big snow that is now inhabiting my town in coastal Massachusetts.

The difference? Space.

I'm from rural Ohio, out, as my father would put it, "where the hoot owl f**s the chicken." Consequently, there's a lot of space around in the winter that nobody's using for much. It snows a ton, you just move that snow on top of other snow-- no problem. But when you live, as I do now, in a city that was in large part planned before the Battle of Concord, 38 inches of snow is a different story. When most side streets barely admit one lane of traffic under optimal conditions and are as convoluted as a David Eggers story, where the hell do you put three feet of snow?

(It turns out the state doesn't know either. Just yesterday I heard a new term, "snow farm," for the plots of land where snow is trucked in to be dumped. Apparently some of these snow farms won't be done melting until July. )

As of this writing, eastern MA is halfway to paralyzed, with many side streets impassable, public transportation operating behind schedule, schools delayed, and mail undelivered to some areas (!!). Best of all, 5 more inches are on the way tomorrow. Fun!!

Fun fact:
Eastern Massachusetts got its average snowfall for a year in twenty-four hours on Saturday and Sunday, falling continuously at a rate of between 1 and 1.2 inches per hour. My particular town by some measures got the worst, at 38 inches total. (We win!) By way of comparison, a person would have to eat 100 pounds of beef in one day to get their yearly allotment of moo-meat. Just sayin'.

So the "walkin' pneumonia" became the "crawlin' pneumonia," and then with the addition of industrial-strength antibiotics became the "crawlin' and stinkin' pneumonia," only to finally transmogrify into the "crawlin' and stinkin' but back at work because one more game of Civilization II while assing around the house waiting to feel better (it's been a week since I've been outside) will soon will drive me mad mad! I tell you pneumonia."

What with all the pneumoniated crawlin' and stinkin' while filin' and researchin' going on, I only have this to offer: my favorite thing about beets is that, after you're done eating them in all their beety deliciousness, they make you pee a beautiful purply-orange, like a micturated sunset 'sconced in porcelain.