Amateur German Couple Fucks in Office

I was sitting at my desk today playing tower defense games like usual, when my ears took notice of some unpleasant words coming from down the hall.

"Let's get Ryan to do this."

Instinctively my body shuddered, and I released a grunt of disgust that could apparently be heard down the hallway. Laughing, one of my co-workers came over to me and said they had a new project for me to work on.  Luckily, it was not actual work.

I have the unenviable position in my office of "The guy that knows something about computers." I am not a computer expert by any means, but the knowledge that I do have makes most other people in my office seem like a bunch of baboons rubbing their slick red hindquarters over their keyboards. Gross! This knowledge includes: how to change a desktop wallpaper, where a file went after it was downloaded, how to get open "one of these youtubes my cousin sent me,"and that turning something off and then on again fixes most problems even if I have no clue what's wrong.

As a result of my superior technological saavy, I was asked to figure out how we can all watch the Inaguration of Barak Obama next week. This didn't take very long as we have laptops, a wireless connection and a projector. I decide to do a nice test run and make sure everything works and runs smoothly.

I bring all the necessary equipment into the conference room with the assistance of my work chef and novice stalker, Pancakes. The laptop goes on, the wireless seems to work, the projector throws it up onto the wall and my job appears to be just about done. I head on over to CNN's website and pull up a live feed of Hillary saying goodbye to the Senate.  The connection works well for a few seconds, but then begins to freeze.

Pancakes tells me he will test it out on another site. As he steps to the computer he tells me to go keep a lookout. Being the dullard I am, I don't realize what is going on until I see the giant words YOU PORN  plastered up across the conference room wall.

Before my brain can stop spinning, Pancakes has pulled up a video of young german couple engaging in intercourse. Now maybe some of you filthy degenerates have watched porn at work before, but I doubt you have experienced it on such a large scale. It is a bit overhwelming to see gonads swinging around on that scale. My head turned down the hallway, and then back to the giant penis and vagina on the screen and then back down the hallway again where it remained for a good 10 seconds beofre Pancakes yelled "He's putting it in her coolie!" 

The disgust I was feeling at this point was really only due to a middle aged man using the word "coolie." I don't even know if I am spelling that right. The last time I heard it I didn't know how to spell. He turned it off after a few more seconds and said "See? everything works fine."

My soul hurts.

Invention : The Hamlin Scale

If there is one thing I enjoy, it's getting so sick of something that I vomit . Then afterwards I pick through the half chewed bits and create something new and magical.

There are only a few ways we humons have to quantify our like, or dislike, of things. There are those who use stars, and other may use thumbs.  Early man used a series of grunts ranging from "Ugh" to "Unf." Once numbers were invented, we came up with the most common system of rating we have, the assigning of numbers between 1 and 10. For example, "This was a nice phone call. I give it a 7," and "You didn't confuse my thighs with my vagina this time, so you eked out a 4."

It is time to abandon this old stand by and make the evolutionary leap to something more flexible and modern.

Enter The Hamlin Scale.

With the current old fogey way of doing things, one would say, "On a scale of  1 to 10, how good does this frock look on me?" 1  being completely atrocious and 10 being frocking amazing. 

Now, with my new system we will say "How was the roast pork on a scale of 1 - Harry Hamlin?" 1 of course being complete fail pork, and Harry Hamlin being the most delectable thing I have ever tasted.

Simple enough so far, yes?  Now, the real beauty of the Hamlin Scale, aside from Harry Hamlin,  is the flexibility and personalization it allows. For in between the two extremes of the scale are a number of possible values determined only by how extensive your knowledge of random celebrities is.  Confused? Me too. So here a few examples.

If someone were to ask me to rate chicken parmigiana on a scale of 1 - Harry Hamlin, I would say that it is a Tom Berenger because chicken parm is fucking delicious, but nothing is a Harry Hamlin.  And if you inquired how my first season of little league went, I would tell you that it was an unfortunate C.Thomas Howell, for I got zero hits and peed my pants 3 times.

I will now share with you a condensed Hamlin Scale in descending order. Condensed because I don't think anyone would read the 5 pages of names I came up with while thinking about this project. I have included links in the likely event of, "Who the fuck?"

Harry Hamlin

Markie Post

Tom Berenger

Patrick Duffy

Beverly D'Angelo

Dwight Gooden

Shannon Tweed

Tito Puente

Michael Ironsides

Kerri Green

Reginald VelJohnson

Bob Eubanks

Meshach Taylor

Joe E. Tata

Richard Crenna

Diedrich Bader

Bel Biv Devoe

Hal Holbrook

Corey Hart

Joan Van Ark

Al B. Sure

Chester A. Arthur

Elayne Boosler

Antonio Sabato Jr.

Donatello (the Ninja Turtle)

Lori Petty

Eric Lindros

Kurt Loder

C. Thomas Howell

1

I'd be surprised if someone knew all of these people without looking them up, but if you happened to have such amazing knowledge go seek some fucking mental help.

Whittling down my list to these 30 levels of rating goodness was difficult. Consider it a base for you to add in, or remove, any names you feel can quantify your level of like. You can take them all out and put in fictional characters or types of sandwiches for all I care, but there must remain a 1 and there must remain a Harry Hamlin, two universal truths that can not be denied. Spread the word. Tell your friends. The time of the Hamlin Scale has begun. 

If you are kind enough to leave a comment, feel free to debate any placing on the scale and suggest a name that should be included, and what position it should appear. 

I need a hobby.

Why Do I have a Mirror Anyway?

The other day I was parading around in a state of moderate naked as I am known to do from time to time, when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

Now, I haven't ever considered myself what scientists refer to as "physically attractive," but ho-lee fuck! This experience has given me  some helpful knowledge as well as a smattering of PTSD. I will now share to show how much I care.

There is nothing more ridiculous looking than a grown man wearing only a t-shirt.

Picture it right now. I will wait.

...

...

...

...

See what I mean? 

It doesn't even matter how in shape your physical form is. You can have a chronic need for scotch tape because you are so fucking ripped, but if you are wearing a t-shirt and no pants you will always look like a 3 year old searching for his mother to brag about using the potty by himself.

Socks probably make it worse. 

Things get flipped turned upside down when this situation is applied to women. Pants are the enemy in this case.

This was lame, but I had to write it so I wasn't the only one thinking about bottomless men. You're welcome Diane.

PSA

There was a girl who I had a a full on sexual adult relationship with some time ago. One time, during a particularly raunchy encounter, this girl cleared her breathing passage and asked me to give her what she called a "Corbin Bernsen." 

Being the eager to please, young go-getter I was, I naturally complied, but I fully regret taking part in such a heinous act. It damaged my soul. I advise you to not make the same mistake I did.

This doesn't look like North Haverbrook

I apologize for the foul nature of this post.

2009 is off to a rip roaring start. Work has turned back to actual work instead of the oddly furnished lounge it had been the last last 3 weeks or so. You can imagine my excitement.

A scant few minutes ago I got a call of nature and got up from my desk and made my way to the lavatory. it is usual for me to pass water around this time due to the one and a half liters of grape soda I enjoy as part of my balanced  breakfast.  I turn the corner and begin to pass through the doorway of the john when I run into a wall of horror.

I may have mentioned this before, but I avoid taking a dump at work like I avoid ex-girlfriend's facebook profiles. Many people in my office do not share this quality though. And one of these many people decided that today was a day to smear their shit all over the toilet. Someone who seemed to be on a strict diet of mushy peas and paste.

It's not as if it some inconsiderate bastard Jackson Pollocked the inside of the bowl and failed to clean it up with a handy toilet brush. Oh no. The seat was up and there was human dung all over the rim of said toilet. It honestly looked like some maniac had sat his buttcrack down on the rim on the toilet and then slide along it like some kind of Ass Monorail.

Naturally I turned around and ran down the hallway to make it back to my desk fast enough that no one would think I had time to commit what I can only describe right now as an act of terrorism. I will update as events unfold.

I can't believe you made it to the end of this.

Treinta

What an unfortunate thing it was to spend precious time watching that "fight" I posted about last week. It was very likely the most boring piece of shit fight I have ever seen in my life. Amputees could have squared off and produced a more entertaining boxing match. 

That being said, Evander Holyfield deserved an obvious victory and a piece of his old heavyweight crown back, but it was not to be. As happens so often in boxing, a terrible and most likely corrupt decision was made in favor of the giant Valuev. Usually when I spend $25 and wind up that revolted and depressed I have to get a blood test done afterwards.

As I watched Holyfield plod around the ring so much slower and generally just less than what I remember, I couldn't help but think of the horror that awaited me this week.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I will be turning 30 years old. This may come as a shock to many of you who had me pegged at about 14 based on my insecurity and fondness of dick jokes, or those who thought I wasn't a day less than 47 due to both my looks and 3 teenaged daughters. But I digress...Really, I do. Mostly when I'm alone. 

Sometimes I feel that my life so far can be summed up with the phrase "Stop at a Whammy..." but other times I think I'm pretty okay. 

I'm not really sure how to handle this milestone of making it 3 decades without killing myself while trying to impress some girl.  I really don't want to reflect back on what I have accomplished in my life because I want to kill more than 28 seconds. After 30 years it seems my biggest contributions to the world have been frightening examples of poor fashion sense and popularizing the phrase "It's like buttering a waffle."

I can't say that I am where I pictured myself being when 30 ticked off on my clock, but many of those dreams involved a scantily clad Susan Lucci and the magnificent benefits that come with having superhuman strength. Am I close to being where I feel I should be? Not at all, but  I did manage to lose my virginity along the way somehow, so that's a nice surprise. 

30 years without getting drunk is something. I'm not sure what exactly. But something is definitely a description of it.

I'm  depressed over the shrinking of the range of "older women" who I would pork caused by my rapid age gain. Am I about to lose the right to use the term MILF?

Physically I have never been anything to write home about, so I could always work out like crazy and turn into of these assholes who winds up telling every person he bumps into, "I'm 35 and in the best shape of my life!" I hate those fucks, but you can be sure the second I see one ab muscle I will have my shirt off and flex until I prolapse my rectum.

I guess that's it I worry if I think any more about my birthday that I will start crying and fall headfirst into a tin full of various flavors of popcorn that all of you have probably been sent by now. Before I stop I would like to ask a favor. 

If you are kind enough to comment, please refrain from using any of the following phrases:

"30 is the new 20"

"The big 3-0"

"It's all downhill from here"

"You're still so young"

If you use any of these, you will ruin my birthday. When you see a news report of a man getting paralyzed as he tried to hang himself with tinsel, I hope you'll be proud of yourself.

The Real Deal

I'm not a religious person by any means, but I can't help but feel the love of the Lord fill my body whenever Evander Holyfield fights. He is a Warrior of God. You can see the strength of his convictions in the way he fights and his dedication to spreading the love of God by the 11 children he has with numerous different women (according to wikipedia the number is "at least 11").

Tomorrow night Evander, now 46 years old, takes on World Champion Nikolai Valuev of Russia. His nickname is "The Russian Giant" Here is why:

What a mountain God has put in front of The Holy One to climb. I'm positive he is an actual living, breathing ogre and that he gets paid for his fights with buckets of raw fish.

In all seriousness, this fight should be ugly. Evander is well past his prime and has slowed down significantly. At 7ft tall and 310 pounds, Valuev isn't exactly Barry Allen either. Despite this I will watch. I will cheer. I will yell. I will make the sign of the cross and hold on to the tiny shred of hope that Evander Holyfield will turn back the clock tomorrow night, for both of us.

That being said, look at this monster bastard.

Seriously

For at least 2 decades I thought Tom Jones was black.

"You never listen!"

Now that may be a bit of hyperbole, but it is not completely inaccurate. I would say I have "listening difficulties." My girlfriend would say, "You don't ever fucking pay attention to me when i talk!" Tomato, Tomahto.

This problem is not limited to only to her. Co-Workers, friends, parents, financial advisers, acquaintances, parole officers, etc., all fade into the background eventually. Their words ricochet off the side of my huge head as I start to wonder things such as how I would look in a fedora or if someone has already taken the woolly mammoth as it's national symbol.

I don't want to zone out when I am spoken to. I would like to say it's the fault of chronic ear abuse that started many years ago as a young Ryan  pressed the headphones of his Walkman tightly to his skull so he wouldn't miss one note of "Armageddon' It". I would like to say that I have conversational ADD. It is more likely, however, that I am disgustingly self-absorbed.

I want to pay full attention, most of the time. I feel that I would have better and more meaningful conversations. My overall knowledge would increase, and I would get yelled at less. 

For those of you who would like to pay less attention when certain people are talking to you, I will share a list of useful, but mindless, refrains you can spit out every so often during a conversation to pretend like you are paying attention.

There are the obvious ones such as "yeah," "Uh huh, "I know," "really?" and "That's weird."

You also have more advanced options such as "I know, right," "No way," "Are you serious, "Are you sure about that," "No No. You're right. You're right," "Ummm...I don't know about that one," "That's something you have to do some thinking about," and "They really need to cut that out."

Laughing can also work, but like the advanced options should only be attempted once you have become better skilled at talking without listening. Also, never use "You don't say." No one says that anymore and will blow up your spot in a jiffy.

I take zero responsibility for any failure with these phrases. You may just use them wrong and there are some out there who actually pay attention and will know what you are doing right away.

What's Wrong with Cash?

I'm taking a break from my healthy diet bashing today as I am so full of succulent meats and flaky goodness from this weekend that I do not wish to ruin the vibe with talk of something disturbing and vile, like fish. There is a much more pressing matter at hand. 

It's holiday shopping time.  Across the country people are turning out in surprising numbers to get amazing deals and crush underpaid immigrants under the weight of their Christmas cheer. This is also a time of great stress as I, and my brethren, desperately struggle to decide what to get our significant others.

I'm not one of those folk who wants their girlfriend to specifically tell him what to buy, although once Dec. 20th rolls around and I start to wonder if my mother has anything cool I could steal, I reconsider my stance a bit.

It's the thought that counts, but I don't have a thought. I have thoughts. Numerous, ridiculous thoughts.

"What do girls like? Girls like clothes. I should get her clothes. What kinds of clothes does she like to wear?  Why can't I remember what she wears? I hate it when she wears clothes. I can probably go to the store and pick out something good. Maybe a nice top, or some kind of frock. What size is she? If I get something too big she will say I think she is fat. If I get something too small she may feel fat and bite my nose off. Think! Think about when she talks about clothes! OK.  She told me to never wear that button down one with the hot dogs on it ever again. Usually when she sees me in my underwear she laughs and says "Oh no. Oh Nooo." And here's her constant anti-jean shorts campaign...OK forget clothes.

How about shoes?  If I get heels that are too big she might be taller than me. Do they still have those looks like a pump/feels like a sneaker deals? What's her shoe size again? OK forget shoes. 

Jewelry!! Where do I get decent jewelry? Tiffany's. Chicks love that place. I wonder if they sell giant clock medallions. Oh these earrings are very ni-Holy shit this is expensive!! They have to have good items for a bit cheaper. Oh look this is only 100 dollars. A "sterling silver money clip." OK forget jewelry.

Maybe she would like some books. She is literate, and I remember knocking some off her bed every now and then. I wish i could remember what kind of books they were. Was there some kind of long haired pirate with an open shirt and windswept hair on the cover? Would a self-help book be insulting? Maybe something from Oprah's book club? Wait, I don't want her gaining enlightenment and realizing she should dump me. This is hard!"

If only she would be content with me tying a bow around my genitals and doing that Beyonce dance that all the kids seems to be into.

My Diet, Part 3: Smile and say Puke!

This will be brief as I have a half day today. I think it's for parent teacher conferences.

I LOVE mozzarella cheese. I like a smattering of Parmesan cheese on my foods. I am pleased by Ricotta when it is stuffed inside a ravioli.

I despise all other cheeses. 

Despite being sickeningly patriotic at times, I will can not bring myself to even taste American cheese, and I am definitely not neutral when it comes to Swiss. Gouda is not Gouda, and Feta is no betta.  I hate all this shit. 

Cheese is gross. It smells gross. It feels gross. I really don't even want to touch cheese unless it is to throw at people eating cheese. 

Does it bother any of you that any kind of vile buildup of filth and gunk around the loin area is described as cheese? How can something comparable to smegma be at all appealing to eat?

Do you know how cheese is made? I will tell you. You leave an unfinished bowl of cereal on your dresser for a month and half. There,  you have just made some cheese. Who wants to eat something made like that? Do you know how much Febreeze winds up in there?

And what the hell kind of food comes wheel form? 

Artificial cheese flavoring is A OK in my books, and I am obviously not opposed to cheese in written form.

My Diet, Part 2: I've had my Chrlorophyll

Ugh. That barely even makes sense.

In today's exercise of extreme narcissism we will look at my eating habits in respect to vegetables. Can I stand any of them? Does the fact that many are found on, if not in, the dirty ground  gross me out? Does their phallic shape make me want to eat them more? Let's find out.

My situation with vegetables is a bit better than it is in regards to their fruity friends as there are some that I actually eat on a regular basis.  I will tell you what vegetables they are even though I already know your reaction to them. They are the holy trinity of Corn, Peas and Potatoes.

Let me guess. "Those aren't even real vegetables, weirdo." I know you said it. Everyone does. I'm not sure why they don't count. I mean, there is the whole thing with corn not being digested, and who in their right mind would eat a potato that isn't at least covered in salt and butter? OK so maybe I see it a little bit. But don't forget the peas! Peas are weird. I'm pretty sure they are actually good for me. Does this mean I win?

Every other vegetable you can cross off my list. My dog ate more vegetables than I do. He would gladly chow down on some carrot sticks where as I would only use them as a faux wang to shock and surprise people during one of my world famous adult web cam variety shows. In fact if it wasn't for the disturbing glee I received from people recoiling in horror at what they thought was my deformed cock, I would have absolutely no use for yams, broccoli, eggplants, zucchini, turnips or bell peppers. I am considering them a vegetable here. 

The biggest downside to having no love for vegetables, aside from being dead by 33, is the  situation I run into at restaurants. I have never eaten a salad in my life. Sometimes an unrequested plate of greenery and pals finds it's way in front of me, and I am left to stare at it uncomfortably. It's a lot like if I were invited to  a dinner party and sat down to find that an ex-girlfriend was seated next to me. I didn't ask for it. There are a lot of awkward glances and sighs, and quickly I realize why I never wanted to see them again. If I can't pass my salad off to someone else, I will move the components of it around my fork to make it appear to the waiter that I have eaten some of it.  

So I do feel some shame about all this, but I don't see any future for me other than a diagonal life of a person whose body is in desperate need of a V8.

My Diet, Part 1: Hello Scurvy

With Thanksgiving happening this week I figured this would be a ripe ol' time to discuss a fact you may have discerned about me. 

I am a picky eater.

This in itself is not an awful thing. There is something to be said for having "refined" tastes when it comes to food. The problem with me is that I have the diet of an undisciplined 6 year old.

Today we look at fruit.

Unless Skittles are considered fruit, I do not make a habit out of eating fruit. There have been periods in my life where I have gone years and years without fruit touching my lips.

One day I decided that I should try to eat an apple because they are good for your bowels and I was convinced a psychotic doctor was trying to kill me. I purchased a shiny red one from my local fruit vendor. It took a good 10 minutes of pumping myself up to get into a mental state where I would bite it. Unfortunately my physical state was not as ready, and I immediately spit out the small bit I had sheared off. Why? Because it tasted "too planty." 

I have, on two occasions, forced myself to eat  a few slices of an orange. Strangely, one of these times was in a school cafeteria surrounded by 50 or so people who. I am sure, were gawking at me and wondering if they had to run over and make sure I didn't bite my tongue during the epileptic fit I was obviously experiencing. Every time I would insert a slice into my mouth, I would have some kind of involuntary spasm that I figured was my body's physical rejection of this strange unknown substance.  

I've tried berries of the straw and rasp kind, but the seeds skeeved me out. I will not use a melon for anything other than a way to keep my other hand busy during masturbation. I would be happy if I never saw a pineapple again. The only way I would ever buy a banana is if the ridiculous anti-monkey laws of this state are repealed. Millions of peaches? Peaches not for me. I'm positive a kiwi is some sort of egg, maybe for a platypus.  I would consider eating a grape only if it was being fed to me by a barely clothed slave girl while riding on a palanquin.

In closing I will say that fruit is more useful for throwing at people purposes than eating purposes.

I Require Musical Assistance

My exercise habits are very bi-polar. I swing between periods of steady and increasing activity to states of intense loafing where I change my name to Argon and expend as little energy as possible.

Currently I find myself in a fit of running. It's going very well. I feel my wind building up faster than my Uncle Len's at Burritoville. I would like this trend to continue for a while longer, or at least until I stabbed by some street tough because I run at 10 o'clock at night. So I need some help to make this happen.

Good music make running  a hell of a lot easier. I must keep my play list constantly updated and refreshed.  If you would be so kind as to  suggest some tunes that will keep my legs moving when my brain is thinking of sofas and leftover chicken cutlets sitting in the fridge, I would greatly appreciate it.

I won't set any guidelines for the songs. I will check out  any selection you feel would help, but I may lose respect for you if you suggest something that is the garbages.

Ugh

I have a few more of these to do.

Jay - "Of Hot Dogs and Love"

I hate myself.

WISWIM

Over a year ago I attempted to cleanse myself of evil and guilt by dragging my dirty lies out into public for all to see. I also vowed that I would attempt to curtail my fibbing, as I had learned that it was wrong. Who knew?

Things did not go as well as they could have. However I will once again relieve myself of the burden of deceit by confessing to you what I said/what I meant.

I'm going to try to not lie so much.

I'm lying right now.

No. She's not hot.

I love you, but she is pretty fucking hot.

I ordered it last week. I don't know why it hasn't gotten here yet.

I only remembered this morning it was your birthday and couldn't be bothered to go to the store, so I ordered it 15 minutes ago.

I don't even know how to take pictures off someone's webcam!

I may need a bigger hard drive after this.

I'll eat whatever you put in front of me.

I will eat whatever you put in front of me, as long as it's not fruit, vegetable, fish, soup, stew, has no brown sauce on it, has no mayo on it,  or wasn't invented by Indians.

Not really, but it's thick.

The first part is actually true.

I don't know what you're talking about.

I know exactly what you are talking about, but I hope if I play dumb you will stop yelling.

No, I don't know where the cookies went. I didn't even have any.

I know where they went. I untucked my shirt to hide the bloating caused by an entire package of Nutter Butters.

Oh yeah. Getting an apartment together would be very cool.

HELP!!! SOMEONE HELP ME!! EJECT!!! EJECT DAMN IT!

Close Call

Naming a baby is always a time of danger. Pick the wrong name and your child may be tortured for life. I've often wondered how much impact a name can have on a person's identity, success and even physical development.  For example, if I name my son Gravel Facepunch, will he be tougher, larger  and more forceful than if he were named Feighleen Unicorn. Had I the means to travel backwards in time and speak to my own parents before my birth, I would have tried to convince them to name me Stack Overload.

A co-worker of mine was discussing the debate going on over the name of her newest grandchild. This woman is in her early 70s and was previously occupied as a nun. The kid had been named a few things already before the birth. At one point he was Dylan and then he was Ryan. After he was born they were considering the name Brody which makes my stomach twist just typing it. However Brody was shortly axed in favor of Dylan again.

When Office Nun mentioned his middle name was James, someone piped up and said, "Hey. You can call him DJ."

Office Nun then said, "You know that's why they decided on Dylan. It was going to be Brody, but apparently there is some problem with him being a BJ"

The reaction you probably just had to this statement was the same as those in the office had upon hearing it. To make things worse, she kept saying, "What? What's wrong with BJ? Is it something bad? What's BJ? What's BJ?"

Now this situation is not foreign to me. Usually though it's with a much younger girl who is playing dumb when I make a suggestion as to what we can do that evening. In this case though I had zero desire to tell someone who lived in a convent what the hell a BJ is.

However she continued to ask anyone who would listen, and eventually she came over to me and said "What's wrong with BJ?" Knowing my mouth could not be stopped when confronted with such a question, my legs decided to take action. I stood up and race walked away from the scene as "I don't know! I've been asking my girlfriend that for months" escaped from my word hole.

I'm still not sure if anyone explained it to Office Nun, but if Pancakes had been around I'm sure he would have.

While I do appreciate the parents of this child were kind and smart enough to avoid the BJ debacle, the name Dylan is still kind of lame. This may be a result of my inability to stop thinking about 90210...ever, but I fear he has been sentenced to a life of sideburns and squinting.

Still haven't found what I'm looking for.

Ann unfortunately neither have two people who found this blog by searching for the following terms:

"When did jean shorts come out?"

and

"warm bucket of water vagina" 

Some guy from Australia searched for that second one.  It's even more disgusting if you say it out loud with a piss poor Australian accent. Do it. I will wait.

See? Now do it with a German Accent.

Now do it like you're a robot.

Now do it like Jack Nicholson.

Gross

The Password is...

In the history of me there has been many a moment of  unfounded paranoia. One such occasion took place while I was entrenched in the disgusting real of chat rooms and instant messages. 

One day I found myself in a familiar situation. Some young gal in a far away land was on my monitor and self consciously  fiddling with her hair as I sent streams of innuendo into her IM window. As we chatted she wrote to me "I have something I want to show you."

Jackpot! I thought for sure I was going to see at least some side boob if not full on panty. Oh how wrong I was.

She leaned down to her left and when she returned to her previous upright position, she was holding a large pineapple. This probably sounds incredibly random to you, and it should have to me as well, but this piece of fruit sent me into a paranoid fit. You see at the time, the password I was using for my Yahoo IM name (crabbyjay, please entertain me at work) was pineapple12. 

Immediately I thought of the only logical explanation for this coincidence. This woman was one of those sicko Internet hackers who was playing mind games with me.

She was holding the pineapple next to her face and smiling dubiously as I logged the fuck out of yahoo and frantically tried to figure out how to change my password before this deviant criminal used my password for evil purposes. Looking back on it now, I may have over reacted a bit because the worst she could have done was check my email and find out that I had tried more than once to respond to those penis enlargement ads.

In a brilliant attempt to find out the truth I changed my password to michaelboltonalbum. If I ever got her on her web cam again and she held up a Michael Bolton Album then I would know that she was fucking with me or just had really awful taste. Either way I would be done with her. 

I logged back into yahoo with my new security system function and sent her a message saying that my Internet was disconnected for a minute.  The conversation went like this.

Me: Sorry about that.

PineapplePrudence: It's ok. For a second I thought you hated my spongebob house!

Me: What?

PineapplePrudence: You know! Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?

Me: Spongebob Squarepants.

PineapplePrudence: YAY! I LOVE Spongebob. I collect tons of Spongebob stuff.

Me:  How old are you again?

PineapplePrudence: 25

*Me has just gone offline*

I guess my paranoia was more misplaced than unfounded. It's like my own kind of Spider-Sense.

911?

Should I be concerned that for the past week I keep finding what looks like tiny blue pieces of candy in my belly button?

I haven't tasted any, yet.