I Don't Know How to Wipe My Ass

Sorry. Been busy this week. No time to write for free when I could be making $1.25 an hour. If anyone ever tells you the psychic racket is a good way to get rich, kick them in the sack.

So, rather than supply my own comedy (as if), I thought I'd link you to the funniest rant I've read in at least a year, some random thoughts by Nick. 90% of you have probably read this a dozen times already, and voted unanimously to make Zuck a juror as a direct result, but I just got around to it. Dayum, I'm slow.

Note: I'm only linking to this because I'm a homophobe who might be a repressed homosexual who brandishes reverse psychology to pose as a liberated straight guy. Or something. I haven't been sure ever since I lost my "spank me" crop top in the hot tub.


mss.doc - Ribbed for her pleasure

Okay, weekend's over. Back to the blog. I don't know why I didn't write this weekend. It's not like I consider this "Terrible, terrible things" a job or anything. It's pretty much the only fun writing I do these days. Actually, I did write. I just chose not to share my whining with you, so I deleted it. Bet that hurts, huh?

Confused in Cleveland writes:
Dear Galoot,

What's this thing? No, there, right there, to the left - yeah that. What IS it?
Oh, that. That's a shortcut on my desk to a Word document that I never open. It taunts me.

It's fiction. It's seven chapters of delicious goodness that refuses to grow any bigger, no matter how much I plead. I've been pleading for a year now, but I still can't open it. I've reinstalled my operating system four times in 12 months and, each time, faithfully returned that shortcut icon to its proper place should the time arrive when I am ready to add another chapter. Or at least re-write part of it again.

I still can't open it. My urge to finish the story just stopped in mid-stream. They call it "writer's block." I call it self-flagellation.

I'm waiting for the urge to pick up where I left off. Or the motivation to say "the hell with it" and start something new. That's why I started this stupid blog. So I could at least put words down and *pretend* I'm still writing. (Please keep Asking Galoot. I need to write and all my good anecdotes are used up. The new stuff is too dull to inflict on you.)

Writing is a lot like sex. Sometimes it's fast and nasty and fun and oh-so-satisfying. Other times it's slow and smooth and intimate and flowing. Still other times it's a floppy, flaccid disappointment. Bah.

Truly, the whole writing process is much the same as the journey from flaccidity to orgasm, whether quick-like-rabbit or long and luxurious. Right now I'm feeling a little chubbier than I was two months ago. Maybe this blogging thing is working. Sorta.

Oh God, oh God, oh God, I can feel it. Oh God, I'm going to, OH God, OH OH GOD OH... No. I'm just faking. Still not much motivation to write. This psychic shit drains all my creativity. Maybe I should get a job at Home Hardware. I see that hb's spurting a lot of ink. Oh God!


Sears. Good life. Great price

These ABC News Iraq prisoner abuse photos are brought to you by Sears, Honda and Miracle Gro.

Private Lynndie England smokes Newports. Shouldn't you?

I just had a great idea! A naked Iraqi mosaic. Arrange them into the logo for Coca Cola or Ford. Sales will skyrocket!

I love America.

Ask Galoot - Mmmm. Swedes.

Hey, guess what? It's time for another installment of "Ask Galoot." Face the front of the room, children.

Taz writes:
Dear Mr.Galoot, this is something I've been asking myself for a long time. I hope you can answer it. Why is it when people with accents (Australian, Irish, English...) sing, they lose their accents?
U2 wouldn't be U2 if Bono's singing voice were as Irish as his politics. If it were, nobody would *understand* his politics.

I'll bet there's a huge body of work on this subject, Taz, but if I looked it up I'd have nothing to write about. So I'll just guess.

First, though, think of all the singing you've heard where accent isn't lost. Traditional Middle Eastern music has a strong accent. Indians chanting sound exactly like Indians chanting. Russian folk singers sound very Russian. Kurt Cobain had a recognizable Lithium accent. That's because none of them are singing in English and the accent comes through. Traditional music also carries the accent over *because* it's traditional. It's handed down from one generation to the next as a valuable piece of culture and thus retains much of the original nuance.

Of course it's very possible to sing in English with an accent if that's what you're shooting for. If it weren't, Eliza Doolittle would have had no problems with the Rain in Spain and country music singers wouldn't have that annoying twang.

Pop music, on the other hand, all sounds like it was sung by midwestern Americans. Even Abba sounded American, though they were a Swedish group who recorded all their hits naked and lubed up in a Swedish bath. How come? Because 90% of pop music comes from Des Moines. The other ten percent is from Davenport. America. See?

If you want to be a successful pop star, wherever you live, it's probably because you grew up listening to American music. You emulate it because it's all you can find in the stores. You learn by singing along in the privacy of your bedroom to such American icons as Elvis Presley, Bruce Springsteen and Michael Bolton. You pick up the accent. Sorry, world.

If you *do* decide to consciously buck the trend and sing in your own local accent you'll lose sales. Americans not only produce 90% of the pop out there, they downloa.. (oops) buy 90% of the music, too. And no self-respecting Yankee hillbilly is going to plop money down to hear The Who sing "My Generation" like BBC-English Brits. "Oh, I very much DO hope I pahss on before I age excessively." That's just silly.

The real question is "What the hell did Bob Dylan grow up listening to?"


Want some free medical advice? Ask Galoot. I've forgotten more than you'll ever know.


Ask Galoot - The Sequel

Well they've really piled up in the past couple of days. So let's get right down to answering questions, shall we?

Mike starts off with a burning question about urination:
why do you shiver when you pee?
Easy one, Mike. Too much time at the computer. Your mouse hand is getting cold, and when you touch, uh... you know, you shiver. Either get up and walk around a bit before heading to the head or wear mittens when you go. And don't worry about the shrinkage. It's usually only temporary.

Here's a sunny question from someone with xeroderma pigmentosum.
dear galoot,
why is it winter here when it's summer in australia?
You should have paid more attention in high school. Due to the axial tilt of Australia during the southern summer months, it reflects sunlight away into space. Six months later, during the Aussie winter, the country tips back to horizontal and the snow piles up. The situation is reversed in the northern hemisphere, except it's Canada that does the tilting.

Interestingly, countries at the equator, like Equatorland and Equatorvlakia, are always tilted to the vertical. Look at a globe and you'll see. There, the snow *never* has a chance to collect and it's always hot. I looked it up in the CIA World Fact Book and learned that more people burst into flames in equatorial countries than all other countries combined!

Even stalkers have stalkers. Kz asks:

Dollyllama wrote:
I've already asked my question and more than once!!!
Sorry, Dolly. It got lost in the shuffle again. Would you please try again?

And finally, someone named "h" (which coincidentally is the first letter in "HUGGALICIOUS") asks:
Do I or don't I?
At the risk of getting too personal, I think you do. In fact, I think about you doing it a lot. If you don't, you should do so more often. You always do in my dreams. I wonder if you're doing it now. I'll bet you are... I am, too. Getting it published is the hard part.


You know the drill. Ask Galoot and win great prizes!


Ask Galoot - Word Origins

But enough about me. Let's talk about me.

CynLynn (Oops! "Curious in California") writes:
Galoot, where did you get the name Galoot? I mean, I really like it. Just wondering.
CynLynn, I've heard a rumor that you shouldn't use that word in polite company. Wash your mouth out! Someone told me in chat that "galoots" is Aussie slang for "testicles." You know. "Oi! That sally right kicked me in the galoots!"

It may be true because it's so unflattering.


Encarta defines the word as awkward person: somebody who is regarded as clumsy or thoughtless.

Other words associated with galoot are; "strange," "foolish," "uncouth," "disreputable," "unrefined," "eccentric" and "lummox" (my personal favorite).

No reputable dictionary gives an origin for the word but, being a galoot, I'll happily accept non-reputable etymologies if they're funny. One guess is that it comes from the Dutch word "gelubt" (eunuch), but that doesn't sound right. I can't even read music, much less play the eunuch.

But I think you were asking where *I* got it from. You know what? Who cares? It's my blog and I'm gonna tell you anyway.

I like old woodworking tools. I used to have a bunch, but now all I have left is an old bench plane of my grandpa's. One day, when trying to figure out how to restore it to working condition, I did a search on the Internet and discovered a community of other slope-headed old tool aficionados like myself. They call themselves "galoots."

It was the first Internet community I ever hooked up with. They're still active but I'm no longer with them because things change and I don't have time to shape chunks of wood these days. I adopted the name Galoot for myself, though, just in case someone with similar interests ever crossed my path and asked, "Say, do you collect old tools?" (Hi, Skunkboy.)

(This guy, Roy Underhill, is my galootish hero. He may be a eunuch.)


By my definition, a galoot is someone who'd wrap a piece of cord around a stick, set it spinning, and call it a lathe. By anyone else's definition, a galoot would be a cheapskate who can't afford real power tools.

With any luck, this page will sink into the archives real quick, as it's the most boring entry in the blog so far. That'd be your fault, CynLynn.


Keep the questions coming! Leave a comment and Ask Galoot - You've got questions, we've got geeky name badges from Radio Shack.


Ask Galoot - Do Not Call

Loyal reader (but she'll deny that if you ask her) kitten writes:
dear 'loot,

why do I keep getting calls from solicitors and telemarketers even though I have protections on my phone and I'm on the no call list? these people are driving me crazy? how can I make them stop?
Kitten, those may not be telemarketers.

Back in the day, before the restraining order went into effect, I used to call *XXXXX several times a week from a pay phone, pretending to be a different telemarketer each time. Sometimes I'd call with an offer to "scrub her carpets." Other times I'd ask if she would be interested in getting "in my pants," but I'd say it real fast so it sounded like "insurance." I know she loved me. She was always polite when she said no.

I had a whole range of different voices. She didn't complain until I foolishly used a cheesy B-grade movie Dracula accent like the Count from Sesame Street. I guess the Count turned her off. The cops traced my next call and found me licking the public phone outside a 7-11 wearing only my slippers. That was the end of our secret love affair. Now everybody knew and it was no longer exciting. Why did she have to tell?

Still, it turned out well. I would never have met my cellmate, Karl, if it weren't for her.

Anyway, give me your phone number and I'll look into this for you. No charge.

(*Note: XXXXX was not her real name.)


Leave a comment and Ask Galoot - I've got advice coming out my ass!

Ask Galoot

In the spirit of blatant theft, I bring you "Ask Galoot." Yes, it's been done. It's been done better, even. So I'll just put a twist on the idea and claim it for myself (and still be lamer than arsi).

Ask a question in the comments area below. Assuming I feel like it, I'll pick one and answer it. Then ask something else. And on and on and on... Yeah, you can be anonymous. Nobody wants to know about your blistering problem, jago.

This might amuse me. Maybe it'll amuse you, too. If it makes you feel good, pretend I care.

(Note: I won't do the psychic schtick. Don't wanna. I hate it.)


One day this entry will scroll off the front page. Then it will become my own little private testing grounds for formatting and messing with fonts and crap like that.
Right now, however, it is very much a public testing ground, so you can see my mistakes in real-time, as they happen. Is that cool or what?

Yeah. I didn't think so.


Thank you, Alpha Books!

Yes! Yes! I've been looking everywhere for this!



You are insane.

Yes, yes, you're nuts because you think a psychic can answer your questions and predict your future. And, yes, you're whacked because you assume someone who says they're named "Delilah" or "Belladonna" or "Gonorrhea" is a psychic just because they tell you so. I'm not a psychic, though. I'm just some guy sitting in front of the computer eating corn chips and laughing about you in his blog. C'mon! It's the Internet, you twit! That dreamy man you met online is just as likely to be a serial rapist. And "Labia" the psychic is just as likely to be me.

Listen, if I had psychic powers do you really think I'd be answering your questions at a couple of bucks a pop? I wouldn't need your money. I'd have cleaned up on the market decades ago and have a country of my own by now. (Cheney is a psychic. Can't you see his aura?)

The ones who go to an online psychic hotline for a lark, who ask a silly question and laugh at the results, don't bother me. It's you obsessive ones that are screwed up. What really makes me question your sanity is that you have asked me 163 questions so far. I've got a dozen more just like you who've asked over 250. You must have money to burn. You've spent *thousands* of dollars on this crap. And the questions! Oh, the questions you ask.

"How will things go with Jim?" Ten seconds later, "How will things go with Doug?" Ten seconds later, "How will things go with Randy?"

You've asked about fifteen men in the space of one hour! Do you honestly know that little about yourself and your own taste that you think each of these guys is a potential husband? Do you really think anyone else, even someone who claims to have a direct link to the higher realms [insert theremin music], knows more about you than, say... YOU? You want me to tell you if so-and-so is a good match for you? YOU DON'T KNOW?! WTF is that? I told you to put more energy into growing up before putting so much into finding a mate. You came back with "I'm not putting too much energy into finding a mate." You're not? Oh. Okay then. Here's your answer.

"Things are going to go just fine for a while. But eventually the world will run out of penicillin. Then watch out!"

How's that? From here it looks like you're so damned needy for attention that you would kill to have a real relationship. But because you're so screwed up you screw whoever crosses your path. I could say that in your next response, I suppose, but it'd make you mad and you'd stop paying me. So I'll just keep on telling you "Things will go fine" over and over again until you become suspicious. Then I'll switch to "Things don't look too promising." Because you're paying my bills and feeding my kids.

You're insane, but I'll be nice to you while I'm wearing my spooky-cool sounding "Madam Amoebia" hat.

Not here in my blog, though, because you don't know who I am.

(Note: None of the above is true. All psychics are real. I swear. Keep coming back for more. Please.)


Blog add-ons

I know a lot of us have only recently added comments to our blogs (heck, many of us only recently created our blogs), but if you use BlogSpot it might be worth your while to chack out the new Blogger comment feature instead of the HaloScan one.

That last bit is nice if you want to know *immediately* when someone comments on your latest entry. You know, if you're vain, self-centered and crave attention like me.

Speaking of vanity, OneStat has a fairly nondescript stats gathering page counter thingy. I saw it on furitsu's page, and it's pretty neat. I stuck one in my template for the hell of it. Because I have BlogSpot set up to create a unique page for each entry, I can see which entries get the most views, too. That's cool. (But I know YOU would use it to see how many times a certain Opera user reads your page. I understand.)

Still speaking of vanity, Taz installed a "5 people are currently viewing this page" thing on his blog. Naturally, I love the shit out of that idea so I stole it, too. It's at the bottom down there. Go to Nerds On Site to get one if that sort of thing appeals to you. They've got a couple other things there, too. But this is the cool one.


Why Dogs Suck

The time has come to make at least one anti-dog post. None of this is against anyone with dog/puppy/canine or any other form of dog in their name. Just the actual animal dog.

Every so often a dog won't seem half bad but, all in all, they are worthless. I'll give it to you point by point.

Dogs are clumsy
They can't even get up on your lap (assuming you'd want one there - haha) without being lifted. If one does manage to jump that high, odds are he'll misjudge and fall off the other side. If your cat falls asleep on the window sill, you can go away and come back and he'll still be there. If your dog falls asleep on the sill, warn people below to move away.

Dogs can feel no love
Oh, it looks like love! Tail a-wagging, barking with joy, he'll greet you at the door like the Pope greets the ground whenever he flies somewhere. That's not love. That's doggy language for "I'm dependent on you and would die if left alone! I must glom onto someone with a personality so I can mirror it! And, maybe, if I jump around enough and claw your clothes to bits, you won't notice the big puddle in the middle of the floor. Feed me!!"

Dogs are not smart
Eating your own shit is not a sign of intelligence. Licking my face afterward is liable to get you pushed out a window. Dogs can be trained more easily than cats. Parrots can talk and bees can signal where the honey is, too. Wow. Dogs are slaves who will do anything to please their alpha pack leader. You.

Pooping outside
Get real. Like I want to get up, put on my coat and shoes, grab the leash and take you outside every time your thimble-sized bladder needs emptying? Half the time a dog will get so excited when he sees the leash he'll pee in the kitchen before you get him outside anyway. If not, being fawned over because I'm "letting you go to the bathroom" is a bit sick. And I'm not real thrilled with the whole "wrap a bag around your hand so you can pick it up while it's still soft and warm" idea, either.

Dogs eat annoying food
Scratch that. They'll eat anything. They'll eat old used Kleenex if you let them.
Little known fact: A dog can survive in the desert for six months if you give him a pack filled with old shoes, pillows, house plants and computer cables. Once that runs out, he'll eat sand.

Unlike cats, dogs don't always land on their feet
See the point about clumsiness above. When a dog falls onto any part of his body other than his feet, he'll yelp and scream like he's broken his back. But (get this) a scratch behind the ears mends bones! It's a miracle! Wimpy dog. We call my cat, Monday, "Hamburger head." He's come home so beat up you can barely recognize him. He can be trailing a loop of intestine and not utter a sound. "Yay! A chance to get some sun on my innards. Cool. Time to nap."

Teeth and claws
Dogs use their claws to dig holes in the yard. If they can't get to the yard they'll dig holes through the drywall. If they can't get to the drywall they'll dig through the door in order to get to the drywall. Dogs destroy homes. And do you want to hear something funny? Dog owners have to cut their dogs' toenails. Worse, there are some that actually brush their pet's teeth! Then there's the whole hair-cutting/grooming/daily brushing thing. What the hell is that? Get a Barbie doll. You can do all that stuff with Barbie and she won't pee on the floor by way of saying thanks.

All dogs look different
In some cases you're not even sure if it's a dog.
"Is that a rat?" No, it's my Lhasa Apso. "Bless you."
"Is that a mop?" No, it's my Terrapoo. "[snicker][snicker]"
"Is that an ox?" No, it's my Newfoundland. "Big as a friggin' island, ain't he?"
"Is that a leaking hose?" No, it's my Mastiff. "Good God! I've never seen so much drool!"
What's with dogs and their silly haircuts? Must each dog really have a special style? Are they really that hard to tell apart if you trim them each the same? "Oh, no! You shouldn't give an Airedale pom-poms on his feet! That would look silly!" Get real. As if it doesn't look idiotic on a poodle.

Some dogs are okay. That old dog in the Chevy Chase movie that fell asleep in front of the fireplace and didn't realize he was on fire was cool. His replacement, who ran and ran and ran and ran... never to come back - he was cool.

Some dogs can do neat things like catch frisbees in mid-air, a skill they learned in the wild while hunting disk shaped birds. Cats catch rats. I'm all for that. Sure, they sometimes bring you their kill and proudly look up at you with that "Worship me, for I have provided you with FOOD" expression, but I'd rather make a congratulatory fuss over a dead rat than a chewed-up pair of shoes that cost me a week's pay.

Any animal that worships me is a bit sick. I'm just a human. I'm a member of the same race that invented canned spinach. I don't deserve or even want your worship. People who need to be worshipped also need to dominate. They either buy trucks with really big tires or go into politics. I'll take an independent cat companion over a drooling dog slave any day.


No Politics

This blog is a politics-free zone. It may be called "Terrible, terrible things," but even I have limits. If you care to read what I think of recent events (but why should you?), read Cyn instead. She's saved me an amazing amount of writing by echoing my feelings exactly. Read the comments, too.

This blog is for important things, like distraction. (Thanks for the link, Willie.)


The Galoot and Randy Show - Episode 2

(Warning: There's nothing amusing in this post. Feel free to read someone else's blog instead. Arsi's is pretty funny, hb's got some good news, and Grimtooth's... well... Arsi's is pretty funny.)

I got an e-mail from Randy a while back.

"Diane tells me you're looking to upgrade your computer. Let me know what you're interested in and maybe I can get you a deal."

I answer back: "Sure. All I need is a new processor, motherboard, RAM, hard drive, power supply, graphics card, OS... What I need is an entirely new system, because this machine's not worth the money it would cost to upgrade. And we're broke. Not just a little broke, either. Moss is growing on my checkbook. I'd planned on calling you first once I had the money saved for all the parts I want, but that probably won't happen until, oh... 2005 or so."

And I send him the specs on my machine (knowing it'll get a laugh) and the list of parts I've been lusting after and plan to buy in a year or two once I figure out a risk-free way to rob the convenience store.

I don't hear back from him, but I didn't really expect to. We've e-mailed only once in the past few months. He may be a geek, but he deals with computer-losers all day, every day, for a living. I don't think reading e-mail is his idea of relaxing, and I don't blame him.

A week or so later Randy and Di drop by for a visit. This is a big deal. Randy doesn't visit. Neither do I. We're not really "friends" yet, either, but I amazingly don't mind the idea all that much. So I haul my ass downstairs to the kitchen and we all sit down for a coffee.

We're all sitting around the table, shouting to be heard over the kids and dogs and we start talking about what a pain in the ass people who expect free support are. He tells us about one of his customers who never pays. At the moment she owes something like $500, and she still calls for help. I tell him about my dad and how I must have spent over 100 hours with him before cutting him off. Randy tells me about his neighbor, who comes knocking on the door for support at strange hours. He helped the guy, then quoted a price, and the guy looked at him like he was from Mars. "But we're neighbors!" Randy says, "But it's my job and you know it. I don't ask you for free dental work."

The conversation drifts to how he got into the business of building and supporting computers ten years ago or so.

"...and Di and I are in the restaurant, and we're trying to get the courage up to ask one of our moms for a start-up loan for advertising and equipment. We finally decide it's not going to happen for such and such a reason. I'm feeling really down because I hate what I'm doing and I'm not making enough to get things rolling in a home-based business.

"It's time to leave, so Di gets up to go to the bathroom before we go. And this guy at the table behind me turns around and says, 'Excuse me. I overheard the two of you talking. Would $500 help?' I turn around and look at this guy like he's on drugs. I don't know him from Adam.

"He says, 'I don't have the money on me, but here's my address. Stop by tomorrow and we'll talk.' And he scrawls his info on a napkin and hands it to me, then goes back to his meal."

Listening to this, Jaq and I are rapt. This is like one of those feel-good movie plots I hate so much. I say, "This is like one of those feel-good movie plots I hate so much."

Randy says, "Yeah. I thought so, too. But I was sure curious. So Di and I talked about it that night and we decided I had nothing to lose. The next day I drive over to his house. He answers the door and ushers me in. His wife is sitting at the kitchen table. She looks up at me and says, 'What's your name?' so I tell her. She writes it down, tears a check out of her checkbook and hands it to me. I'm in shock! I look at her, look at the check, look at him... I don't know what to do. I say, 'I don't know when I'll be able to pay you back. I don't even know if the business will...' and he cuts me off in mid-sentence. 'Pay it back whenever you want. Do it in a month, do it in ten years. No sweat. And don't start talking about interest. Don't want any.'

"I ask him why and..."

And the story goes on. Google for "Pay It Forward" if you don't know the concept. It'll save me some typing. (Note to self: Maybe I'll rent the movie.)

Randy put all the money into a little classified ad for six months, and by the time half a year had passed he'd gotten enough work to quit his job. He paid the guy back, of course.

I look at Jaq and she looks at me. Then I look at Randy and say, "Cool, Randy. But..." and he cuts me off. He says, "I had a customer last month that changed what he wanted in mid-order, after the parts to build his machine had already been shipped. Now they're sitting and gathering dust. I've got..." and he lists a bunch of parts. "All it needs to make it complete is a CPU and some RAM. If you can get the money together so I can order those, you can have it all for the price I paid."

He gets his stuff wholesale, for a lot less than I would have to pay.

"Randy, you could build the machine yourself and sell it for double the price you just quoted."

He just looks at me and smiles.

"Randy, I can't get that much money together in anything like a reasonable time. That's why I didn't call you for those parts in the first place."

He just looks at me and smiles.

"Randy, you just spent the first half hour telling me about how you hate doing stuff for free."

He just looks at me and says, "You never asked for anything for free." Then he smiles again.

I should be getting my check tomorrow or the next day. At that point, Randy'll order the CPU and RAM. In another week or so I'll have a brand spanking new machine built with my own hands and the goodwill of someone who I'm only just getting to know as a friend.

I think I'll paint pink flowers and bouncing kittens on the case. Not really, but if I don't end this story on a stupid and sarcastic note nobody will believe I wrote it.


Comments Gone

I've switched over to BlogSpot's new comments feature because it's clumsier and I like that. Plus, there's one less button at the bottom of this page.

Unfortunately, this means all your old comments are gone. But fear not! I'll summarize the last few weeks for you:

arsi: You are my God. I love you. Too bad you're straight.
MP: I am your God. Down on your knees!
Dolly: You can't really see what I'm wearing, can you?
sliquid: That's my wife, mister.
Xxxxxpp: (I don't know Xxxxxpp well enough to effectively mock him. Sorry, XP. Give me time.)
Kzanderall: Please tell us about your favorite soft-drink.
Cyn: You are my God. I love you. Too bad you're married.
Bb: You talk too much. Shut up.
Wasabi: That's a funny story. P.S. I love my wife.
hbomb: pfft!
jago: I like your page because I can't read it.
MaestroCalhoun: (I couldn't make anything out. It all seemed so random.)

If I missed you, tough shit.

Grab A Book Game


1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 23.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.

"My half brothers and sisters could do things that I'd get whipped for because he said my mother was setting a bad example for me."
Sexual Homicide: Patterns and Motives - Ressler, Burgess and Douglas

Don't blame me. It was Jaymeekae's idea.



Well, I finally have my days and nights turned around. If you're ever in a situation where you must swap the night shift for days in a hurry, here are some tips.

   Day 1: Stay up as long as possible. For example, if you're used to going to bed at 6:00am and getting up at 2:00 in the afternoon, don't. Stay up until 11:00 that evening. Leave instructions with the kids to wake you immediately if you keel over and fall down the stairs. No, no hospitals - they'll drug you unconscious and further wreck your schedule.

   Day 2: Well, that didn't work, did it? You fell asleep at eight-o'clock in the morning instead of at six. Wow. You're two hours closer to your goal. At this rate you should hit your 11:00pm target in just over a week. Not good enough. Maybe try going to bed earlier. Instead of 6:00am, hit the sheets at your target time right off the bat.

   Day 2 1/3: You've been laying there watching the stars drift past your window for two hours. Still not sleepy.

   Day 2 2/3: Finally starting to drift off. Ahhh... blissful sleep. It's 4:00am, but soon you'll be right on schedule. Just one more...

Shit! You've got to go pee. Ignore it. Think about something else, quick! Song lyrics: "The tide is high..." no. "Somebody bring me some water..." no. "Love is like oxygen. You get too much it makes you high..." Alright. It's working. "...not enough and it bonds with hydrogen to make water..." Shit!

Okay. Fine. Get up and pee, but try not to come to full consciousness. Repeat "I will not wake up fully, I will not wake up fully" to yourself as you... ahhhhhh! Quick, back to bed.

   Day 2 5/6: You're wide awake with Sweet lyrics running through your head. You can't remember if they did any relaxing ballads. Get up and try again tomorrow.

   Day 3: It's 11:00pm. Lie still. Perfectly still. Focus on your breathing. In... out... in... out... in... [cough] (ignore that!) in again... out... (don't pay attention to the itch) in... out... in... (what if it's a bug?) out... in... out... (it might be a spider) in out in out in out (a really fast spider) inoutinoutinoutin (crawling up your leg) ARGH!!! Scratch the damned thing. Better. Just a bit of fuzz from the blanket. It figures.

Roll over. Don't look at the clock. Just don't. Breathe. Relax all the muscles in your body. You're a plank... a nice relaxed plank... That's stupid. You're a jellyfish... a nice... naw, they're yucky. You're a... potato. Yeah. A vegetable. A nice relaxed potato. Oh, man, it's working! It's...

Shit. You got too excited. Woke yourself up. Glance at the clock. It's 11:08pm. Bah.

   Day 4: Drugs. There are some expired sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet. 1998 wasn't *that* long ago, was it?

   Day 6: It's 7:30am on day five and you've just awakened. Yes! The pills worked! Your wife is asleep beside you. Do something special. Get the kids up and off to school yourself and let her sleep in. Alright. They're out the door. Make a nice breakfast, put it on a tray, tip toe back up the stairs...

Eh? The kids are back already? What do you mean it's Saturday? I SLEPT 32 FUCKING HOURS?!?! Stupid god damned frigging stupid god friggin' damned friggin' stupid expired pills! Sorry kids. Go back to bed.

   Day 7 (or whatever): Congratulations. You're on schedule. That wasn't so bad.


Here you go, iZ

Galoot Gets Out Of The House

My wife, Jaq, has a friend named Diane. No, this isn't a setup. She has lots of friends because, unlike me, she actually desires to leave the house. I'm a volunteer people-hater who'd rather stay in. Socializing scares me. So I don't have any friends. I know, I know... that surprises you because I'm so cuddly and warm online, but it's true.

Diane's husband's name is Randy. Randy owns his own business, called BootRite Computers. He's a geek. A serious geek. I thought I was a geek until I met him. He's even less social than I am, but he fakes it because he has to work with other people. So Jaq and Diane commiserate and figure that Randy and I should meet.

"You'll *like* him, Sean! The two of you have so much in common!" "Why would I like someone who's just like me?" "Just trust me, dear."

So she forces me to commit to going over to Di and Randy's for dinner in a week. Seriously. She forces me. She pouts.

Fast forward a week. I've tried everything I could think of to get sick or injure myself in a non-obvious fashion, but nothing works. Just before we're scheduled to leave I cut myself shaving. I scream like a girl, hoping she'll run into the bathroom and see the tiny droplet of blood and rush me to the hospital rather than force me to go over to another couple's house. She just yells from the kitchen, "I know what you're doing! It won't work." I sigh and dab at the cut with a styptic pencil and finish up.

She drives. I don't think she trusts me to not "accidentally" go off the road.

We get there and Jaq says, "Sean, this is Randy. Randy, Sean. Di and I are going to head out for a bit. Talk to each other." And they leave.

I've never come so close to wanting a divorce.

So Randy and I stand there in the front hallway just looking at each other, sizing each other up. He's a short, skinny guy wearing a Mr. Rogers sweater. I'm a tall skinny guy wearing something with holes in it from a thrift shop in the early 90s. He's got geeky Brylcreemed short hair. I have a geeky ponytail. He's wearing old-man slippers just like I wear around the house. He's got a dollar store digital watch. We've both got prominent Adam's apples.

I think, "Okaaaaaay, he looks geeky and backward enough, but..." And we just stand there.

He finally says, "Wanna see my computers?"

Now *that's* an opening line! None of this "So, your wife tells me..." or "Did you watch the game..." or "What do you drink?" shit. Straight to the nerdy stuff.

"Yeah, okay."

So he leads me into his work room, and it's positively ANAL! This guy is an obsessive neat freak. He builds and supports computers for a living, and he's got a couple of those plastic units with little clear drawers in them along one wall. Inside one is a fistful of jumpers, and in another is a bunch of case screws. There's a dozen stacks of cables up top, all neatly bundled together with twist ties, and over there is a stack of network cards, still in their anti-static bags, one atop the other and arranged in such a fashion that they couldn't possibly topple. I take mental notes in case I ever have that many case screws. The room is immaculate, which is amazing given he runs his entire business out of it and it's the size of a closet.

I'm impressed. Anal-retentive neatness makes me happy. I'm not that neat, but I appreciate obsessiveness. I say "jumpers" under my breath and nod approvingly, then turn to the computer.

At this point I think a lot of people would say "Cool PC. What games you got on it?" or "Neat screen saver" or, if they're trying to impress, "Is that Windows XP Home or Pro?" but I know he's watching my reaction to see if I meet his own geek requirements. I just nod once and say "Tidy room."

He beams one of the biggest smiles I've ever seen. So do I.

This is how people with Social Anxiety Disorder bond.

"Is that a DOS 3.1 manual?" I say, pointing.

"Yeah. I've still got the disks."

"Backed up, right? Bit-rot."

"Of course."

"Good. Do you still use it?"

"No. But I might need it some day." Good answer. "I use batch files for work, though." And he nods at a neat stack of floppies. I glance over, and the stack is atop a clear box full of 5 1/4" disks. I move closer and lean over. The label in front reads "Quattro Pro 1". My eyebrows go up. I'm impressed.

Now it's time for him to test me. "Better than 1-2-3, eh?"

"It 'Surpasses' 1-2-3."

He smiles. I passed the test.

By now I'm on the verge of caring what someone other than my wife thinks. I can't help it. There's something about Brylcreem and motherboard jumpers. That scares me but I plug on. Straightening up, I turn and move to the door. I don't want him to think I like him just for his hardware.

Just then, Jaq and Diane come back from wherever they disappeared to. They look worried as they come in, but neither of us is crying so they relax a bit. Jaq leans over and whispers, "Told ya." I nod.

to be continued ...



I forgot to leave a comment.

New Look

It's still not perfect, but it evokes the DOS look I want. Only minor tweaks left. Ultra geeky, no? (Just be glad I decided against the C64-giant-fonted-40-column look!)

And I know, I know! DOS filenames can't have spaces and be over eight characters long. I'm, uh... using DOS 7.0 and ALT+255. Yeah.

Does this look okay to you or does it break your browser? Let me know.


You should all know - Galoot's a fucktard

Some goofball's blog.

I can look at a beautiful (but stupid) person all day long. Longer if I've had lots of coffee. But if that person opens their mouth and says something moronic, my interest goes... well, limp. On the other hand, I can spend the same amount of time talking to someone whose conversation is funny, engaging, sarcastic (sarcasm's sexy if done right) and intelligent and not give a rat's ass what they look like. Male, female, fat, thin, tall, short, straight, bent, gay... who cares?

It's the brain that makes the person. Whether you're drop-dead-sexy or wire-brush-ugly, if you find the majority of people are staring at your tits or crotch you're not talking smart enough. Or you're talking smart to a stupid person, thus wasting your breath.

Now, hb doesn't have comments enabled and she doesn't have a way to link to individual posts that I could find. So you'll have to seek out her May 2nd entry yourself to see what I'm talking about. But if you don't think hb is one of the most attractive people in this particular social club we call home, you're royally screwed up.

As for YOU, girl, if you've let your self-esteem become entangled with how others see your meatshell, you're not half as smart as I like to think you are. Phbbbbllltt!!

But what do I know? I'm a fucktard.


Random Title

OMG!! I am, like, soooo sober right now! The room is, like, not spinning or anything!

I live for the weekends.

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