Computer Relic #1: Jedi Cigarette War

The phrase "organize or agonize" was repeated so often by my dad while growing up that it echoes through my brain to this day. This phrase is a truism. I agree with it. Unfortunately, for some reason, I've chosen to agonize throughout my entire life.

Diving into the digital jungle that is my computer's hard drive to attempt organization was tedious. While exploring stray files so eloquently named, "file_01" and "stuff," I repeated over and over that I should have just named and filed this shit correctly in the first place. I did, however, discover some interesting relics. When I double clicked one of these relics entitled "untitled.avi" (God, I can be such a dumb ass), I almost spit out my coffee in surprise at the video that started playing.

How could I have forgotten about this video? I thought. I now warn you that this video has an über-geek rating of +10. It was created at a time in my life when I truly had too much free time. . .and damn it, I miss that. I've renamed the file from "untitled" to Jedi Cigarette War.

Download "Jedi Cigarette War" Here

(Windows Media, 1.9 MB)

Ticket A Dirty Hippie

The Earth on Empty organization has taken it upon their lofty and idealistic shoulders to start ticketing Sport Utility Vehicles because they "have a huge impact on all of us, whether we're trying to cross the street, cycle safely to work, or make effective environmental policy." A PDF version of this ticket is available online for all to download, print and distribute. Looking very much like a typical parking ticket, these tickets certainly get the vehicle owner's attention. The difference between Earth On Empty's ticket and a real ticket is of course the actual infractions listed, the major one being that you're driving a gas-guzzling SUV. The front of the faux ticket has a long, preachy message to the "offender," and the back is chock-full of negative SUV statistics.

Aside from touching someone else's personal property, I really have no major complaints or qualms with a group expressing their opinions. Sure they're a bit nutty and ideologically backwards, but in many ways I say, "go for it, hippie!" On the other hand, even though I do not own an SUV, I have to admit that I'm not too sure of how calmly I would react if I saw these people papering my vehicle with violation tickets.

Regardless, in the spirit of "free expression," and equal time which so many of these groups claim to support, I've recreated their SUV ticket. Instead of ticketing SUV's this ticket can and should be used to ticket Dirty Hippies.

Download my Dirty Hippie Violation Ticket here.

Ideally, this ticket should be given to someone while they are in the act of ticketing someone's SUV. Another useful use is when your pedestrian route takes you past a protest rally, and you just can't stand that putrid, dirty hippie smell. My Dirty Hippie Violation Tickets are available in PDF form for all to download, print and distribute. These might just be good for a laugh around the office too. (For even more laughs, I highly encourage you to compare my Dirty Hippie Ticket to Earth On Empty's.)

Have fun, but don't be an ass. And please note: I accept no liability of any kind for anything good or bad that might result from your use of these tickets.

The Vagina Dialogues

(Andrea and Patti, two vaginas, are enjoying the benefits of the nice cups of herbal tea that their female hosts are drinking on a Starbucks patio.)

ANREA: Isn't it just great to be a vagina!

PATTI: Oh my, yes. It's just super-swell to be a vagina.

ANDREA: I mean, like, if I weren't a vagina, I just don't, like, know what I would do with myself.

PATTI: Yes, yes, I whole-clitedly agree that I too wouldn't know what do with myself If I wasn't a vagina.

ANDREA: Well let me tell you sister that you are one beautiful vagina.

PATTI: As are you. We may have different individual styles and tastes, but we are united through the collective folds and ripples of vaginahood. There is no life like the vag life.

ANDREA: Agreed. Can I ask you one question though?

PATTI: Sure.

ANDREA: Do my lips look too big? Be honest now.

PATTI: Not at all!

ANDREA: Are you sure?

PATTI: You're beautiful sister! I'm no anarcho-vaginist, but I do believe that you shouldn't let the phallocentric standards of vaginal beauty negatively affect your self image. You are a BBV with BBPL's.

ANDREA: BBV? BBPL'S? Sorry, but I was really never that political.

PATTI: (Sighing playfully) Honey, you are a "Big Beautiful Vagina" with "Big Beautiful Pussy Lips!"

ANDREA & PATTI: Tee-hee!

ANDREA: Thank you Patti. Oh, would you just look at me, you've made me cry. Now I'm getting all moist.

PATTI: Let it out sugar. You are beautiful. But to be perfectly honest, you could use a trim. . .but that's just one vagina's opinion.

ANDREA: It's okay. I like my 'fro. And I like your baldness, even though it's not my style.

PATTI: Yeah, back in the 90's my gyno-host called me Sinead O'Cunty.

ANDREA: Well, regardless, you are a good friend--and you're beautiful! I only wish I had a tongue to lick you with.

PATTI: Oh stop. You're going to make me all moist too.

ANDREA: Oh. Do you still have that problem?

PATTI: Well, I've almost licked it.

ANDREA: No more 'Wonder Bread'?

PATTI: No. Just a few tiny baguettes.

ANDREA & PATTI: Tee-hee!

ANDREA: Well that's good.

PATTI: Yeah, I just wish that my host would stop writing poems about me.

ANDREA: Ugggh! Does she still glob on the pathouli oil and not wash her feet as well?

PATTI: More than ever. She keeps me pretty squeaky, but at the rate she's going and what she's going on about, I wouldn't be suprised if GAIA herself popped out of me one day.

ANDREA: Uggh. It's ironic, isn't it, how she waxes you bald but is a sasquatch everywhere else.

PATTI: Horrid. Absolutely horrid. Speaking of "hair issues," I noticed when my host leaned back in her chair that your host now has, well, a "femullet."

ANDREA: Why did you remind me!

PATTI: Unfortunate. . .

ANDREA: I thought that her hair was bad enough when she was sporting the 'Karate Kid' do, but this Femullet? It's just wrong.

PATTI: I know, I know. What can you do though? I'd weep for you personally, but I don't want the bread factory to go into full production though.

ANDREA: It would be a lot easier if she just got a tasteful haircut and wore a t-shirt that said, "I LICK PUSSY."

PATTI: You're preaching to an echoy-choir here, sister.

ANDREA: Sigh.

PATTI: Sigh. Well, anyway, you are looking great.

ANDREA: You too!

PATTI: Talk to you soon. Kisses!

ANDREA & PATTI: Mmmmmph!!!

For ChicagoBloggers.com

I just submitted my blog to Chicagobloggers.com. They say on their submission form,

"We'll visit your site to make sure there's a connection to the Chicago area, and then add it in. If your Chicago connection isn't apparent from your blog, we'll just send you an email asking you to clarify."

Though I've mentioned Chicago in some form in many of my entries, I thought I'd save the person checking for a Chicago connection some time with this entry. I don't want to risk alienating the worldwide audience that this blog has achieved. So for just this one time, for you, the administrative guy or gal over there at Chicagobloggers.com, I now make my Chicago connection readily apparent:


The beautiful skyline with a Chicago twist


An honest portrayal of our Mayor


Local and national treasure Jesse Jackson gobbling on a big fat cock.

There. I think that should satisfy my Chicago connection. If these pictures weren't enough, let me be even more in-jokey to the chargrin of my non-Chicago readers:

• "Trixies" and "Chads" live in Lincoln Park
• I once wanderd into (onto?) Lower Wacker Drive while smashed out of my gourd and tripped over a bum trying to find my way out. He called me "Honkey Imperialist Shit Stain."
  
• Chicago earned its "Windy City" moniker from our loudmouthed, corrupt politicians and not from our geographical location along the jet stream as is popularly believed.
  
• I know the stop on the Red Line where all the white people get off and the black people get on and vice-versa.
• Nothing beats that wonderful Chocolate smell that wafts through downtown from the Blommers chocolate factory.
  

I know this post is narrow in scope compared to the universal truths that this Chicago native consistently tackles. The person checking this blog to ensure it's Chicagoworthiness is probably a transplant from Michigan who has three years or less of "Chicago" under his or her belt. If not, then I humbly apologize to this person and give him or her a big kudo for bucking the trend that I see in this town. If this person also doesn't hang out at Filter Coffeehouse in Wicker Park and didn't write a "Save the Double Door!" blog entry of their own in the past week, then I'm fucking impresed and actually a bit misty-eyed.

I do apologize to my regular readers for this temporary neglect. To Zaghawa from Nigeria: I am still working on your problem, and I'll have my bank account information e-mailed to you shortly. To the Dick List Administrator: Mayor Daley is Chicago's George Soros. To Mikko from Finland, the answer is a resounding "Yes," I still think your country should be destroyed because it would just make me happy for personal reasons that I cannot disclose openly.

The CEO and the Ant Farm

The title of this post sounds like a parable, doesn't it? Or maybe a fable, along the lines of Aesop's The Fox and The Grapes. Well, this tale isn't a parable and it isn't a fable, but it is most certainly about a metaphor. A huge, unsubtle, in-your-face metaphor that makes me simultaneously laugh and shake my head in mild exasperation. Unlike the Fox and The Grapes fable, the moral of which is "It is easy to despise what you can not get," the moral of the story of the CEO and The Ant Farm is simply, "What the fuck?"

Even more simply, the Chief Executive Officer of my company bought an ant farm, this ant farm:

It sits in his office right now. Truth be told, I don't know the C.E.O. guy in question, except for the occassional hello or head nod when leaving or on my way to the office kitchen for a cup of coffee. The longest conversation we ever had lasted about two minutes and was about old soft drinks that you don't see anymore, like Shasta. There's nothing wrong with liking ants, but I wonder if the symbolism of this ant farm purchase escapes the C.E.O. This is what I see when I look at the Ant Farm in the C.E.O.'s office:

Where is the C.E.O. in this annotated picture? Why, outside of the ant farm, running things of course. I just hope he gives the ants enough food and water, and I also hope that there is no need to thin the herd, so to speak.

My Gay T-Mobile

Okay, maybe I'm starting some kind of crusade here, but just like I'm sick of the Yahoo Bitch whenever I log into my e-mail, I am now completely sick of seeing certain people's faces every time I log into my T-Mobile account. The Yahoo e-mail login lady has been up there forever, but at least she was a bit easy on the eyes for the first few thousand logins. The unattractive people displayed at the top of my T-Mobile account--
--are driving me batty. They've annoyed me from day one, but after months of seeing their faces, I'm now beyond annoyance. Look at how much fun they're having on their phones! Look at how they stay in touch! Perhaps they're just sharing gossip. Perhaps the spiky metro and/or homo sexual male on the left is sharing news of a colossal party they've been invited to where everyone who's anyone is going to be. Or, perhaps they're planning a gangbang featuring the Yahoo Mail girl. Or just maybe their conversation is going something like this:

What can I say except that whenever I'm just trying to pay my bill, check my minute usage or check to see if my girlfriend is cheating on me, these "not-in-my-market-segment" people hovering above my account data while gushing with frozen happiness over their cell-phones finally got to me. It got to the point that every time I click button to login to my account, I stare at the space their faces normally occupy while the page loads, hoping they will not appear. Unfortunately, they appear every time. Bottom Line: It's time for new pictures, T-Mobile.

Crosswalk and Train Door Jumpers (With a Hidden Contest!)

The honking taxis speed through the intersection. You're waiting at the crosswalk. You were one of the first people there when the sign changed to "DON'T WALK." In a flash, people begin filling in around you, waiting to cross the street. After a moment, the cross traffic speeds up, and a few people in the now overflowing crosswalk begin edging forward, closer and closer to the speeding cars. The cab drivers become even more reckless than usual, flooring their gas pedals to make it through the intersection, and the people who are the subject of this article, the Crosswalk Jumpers, separate themselves from the crowd waiting to cross the street by tiptoeing even closer to the deadly traffic racing by.

Both the drivers and Jumpers are hypersensitive about what everyone knows will eventually happen, that the traffic light will change and the "DON'T WALK" sign will change to "WALK." It's an anxious situation. People edging in front of the mass of people waiting to cross the street in a big city during the lunch hour is technically no big deal. I mean, so what if in addition to physically separating themselves from the waiting crowd, some people also separate themselves from rational thought by getting close enough to the traffic that their hair blows and clothes flap in the mechanical, traffic-created breeze?

The tension builds. The cross traffic's light turns yellow. And then, the "WALK" sign lights up.

Like bulls out of the gate, the Crosswalk Jumpers literally leap ahead from their already advanced positions, propelled by their expelled nervous energy, released in the goal of getting ahead of everyone.

A real life crosswalk jumper.

And then, in my experience, the inevitable happens. One or all of the crosswalk jumpers (who always happen to jump directly in front of me) lose their steam. They jump off the line, get ahead of you, me, and then. . .they. . .slow. . .dowwwwwwwn-n-n-n-n.

What is the fucking point, Crosswalk Jumpers? Seriously, if you people are in such a desperate need to get ahead of everyone, why in the hell do you jump like rabbits then walk like turtles? Why work so hard to get ahead and then get in everyone else's way? Wanting to get ahead of people in the crosswalk is not a bad thing in itself, but once you made that choice it is your responsibility to keep-on-trucking. You guys are so full of energy off the line, but you shoot your wad quicker than a pre-cum dripping teenage boy about to poke his first pie.

By nature, I am a fast city walker; however, I also practice good sidewalk etiquette. I am courteous while weaving in and out of the commuter and lunchtime crowds that populate the sidewalks like angry ants that just had their hive stepped on. I don't get annoyed when trapped behind a crowd of nose-picking, map-reading tourists. I give the right of way to cross traffic I'm trying to enter. If I'm walking slow, I try to walk on the right. But what gives Crosswalk Jumpers the right to jump off the line like Baryshnikov with Parkinson's Disease, and then decide to walk like old people fuck: Slow and sloppy.

Even worse are the Train Door Jumpers. On the subway or even the suburban commuter trains, many of us have seen these people. They're the ones who often stand by the train doors for the entire length of the commute. Or, they start moving toward the train doors about five to ten stops before theirs is due. Even if the train doors are already occupied, they try their best to worm their way as close as possible to the other standees. (they also often smell like garlic to the stinkiest extreme, the kind of garlic smell that is oozing out of their pores in clumps. This is just an observation without much relevance other than the smell just ads to their annoyance factor.)

I can always spot (even before I smell) a Train Door Jumper by how they have no concept of the basic laws of physics, namely that two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time. They nudge, nudge, nudge! up to the door, hitting people with their big backpacks and/or parcels and accidentally, I hope, rub everyone in the crotch with said backpack and/or parcels.

Then the tension in this situation becomes thick. The train is approaching a Train Jumper's stop. The Train Jumper stares at the train doors with the same wide-eyed and somewhat pained look that tiny dogs display when taking a huge dump. The train slows down, the computerized train announcer announces the station, and the Train Jumper begins revving his engine. There is always one nerve-racking pregnant pause right after the train comes to a complete stop and just before the train doors open. The train is stopped, and you can actually see the Train Jumper swaying forward and back, like he is winding up to try to break down a door. He is trying to time his exit perfectly, and the slight swaying is him building up momentum. Then, in the longest three seconds of this person's life, he bolts out of the train like he's trying to escape a Whoopie Goldberg movie festival.*

Fine. No problem. But just like the Crosswalk Jumpers, the Train Door Jumpers tend to shoot ahead with lightning speed and then putter out. On a normal day, just trying to exit the subway is maddening enough without these people inflicting their physical and psychological terror. Because riding the subway to work is a good enough reason to take your vitamins, the added stress in the disparity between my perception of "Wow, they're moving real fast!" to "What the fuck? Did that person's mad dash just turn into a teetering, glacial hobble?" is just not right.

And don't even get me started on the corpulent Train Door Jumpers who not only dash ahead only to walk slow, but take up a seemingly impossible amount of space by caring ten plastic bags in their left hand and sway their right hand in wide, arcing loops as if they're trying to balance on a tight rope. . .

Life is about choices. To expand the vision of this small "jumper" annoyance into the larger picture, when you choose to jump off the crosswalk or run out of the train, there are inherent responsibilities in these choices. Don't take the leap if you can't accept the responsibility of continuing to walk fast. Why set yourself up for this? Why leap ahead of people you know walk faster than you? It isn't logical, and you piss me off. Daily.
* [EXTRA! Semi-Hidden Mini-Contest! Come up with a better simile than me to complete the sentence, ". . he bolts out of the train like he's trying to escape ___________________________." My wit was lacking for this sentence, being that my first choice was a hackneyed "a Michael Bolton concert." Submit your mini-contest entries to rantnroll@gmail.com. Thank you. ]