The Joy Of Spam: Making The Most Out Of Something Annoying

Since I have been online for over a decade (actually much longer), it comes as no surprise that I get SPAM. About 100 a day on average, most of which spam filters hide from me, and more on weekends when the spammers really get going. I get spam in all languages. I get spam from the “President of the United States” and “Billz E. Gates”! I get spam that looks like a team of drunken monkeys typed it with their balls, and what is being sold and why is often completely undecipherable.

It’s time to celebrate the benefits of spam!

1. If you are a writer, fake names harvested from Spam make great character names. Then again, there are the unintentionally hilarious computer-generated monikers: “Schmuck G. Deriding, Iroquoian L. Biscuit, Zirconium H. Coquetted,Vealed C. Certitude, Abusiveness O. Solitude, Cursoring U. Bayonet, Disabling Condom, Kangaroo D. Castanet, Withering A. Footstool, Bombay Dyslexic, Disallows H. Bootstrap, Epidermis V. Manhunt, Frescoes S. Congo, Vegetated H. Febrile, Vacillating K. But,” just to name a few that another blogger (Phillip LaPlante) noted.

2. You can learn new 1337speak variations, especially how to spell VIAGRA and CIALIS with symbols and numbers…or, as LaPlante commented, appreciate that “subject lines can contain similar kinds of whimsy, or rely on the human brain to “i n t rp rit the c rr ct meening.”

3. You can play “Punk’d” with Nigerian scammers. There are actually entire websites that do nothing but share Nigerian 411 scammer punkings. Total strangers do not offer large sums of money, in general, to people via e-mail. I mean, would YOU do it? The only legitimate response is to string them along and ask for naked or embarrassing pictures with them wearing a shoe on their head and holding signs saying “I like tiny cupcakes” or something equally lame written on them.

4. You can keep up with the latest Urban Legends without going to I’m still waiting for Bill Gates to send me on an all-expenses-paid trip to Disneyland for filling out his way awesome survey, or for an animated Tweety Bird to walk across my screen because I responded to a total stranger’s e-mail that swore it would happen. Except I’m not. I don’t even like Disneyland or Tweety Bird.

5. You can participate in slacktivism by not signing petitions or reading chain mail. You have achieved the same result, but have expended no valuable time or attention to the problem at all! Conservation of resources is good.

6. Speaking of chain mail, you can bring 40 people bad luck by refusing to forward on their lame chain letter.

7. If you have penis envy, all the mail targeted to penis owners will cure you of that. Apparently penises are never long enough, wide enough, hard enough or functional enough, and you need all manner of pills and herbs to keep them operational. I think I’ll just stick to borrowing one once in a while from very close friends.

8. Speaking of friends, now you can meet lots of new naked friends! I get sent at least twelve porn links a day from naked people. I can’t go a day without a spammer intent upon infesting my computer with pop-ups and malware from an awesome porn site. Hold me back!

9. You can correct bad grammar, and keep your skills up to date. This is like shooting large fish in a small barrel. It is often more challenging to find a sentence in spam that is not a grammatical nightmare.

10. Word salad spam is particularly amusing, as it can often resemble William S. Burroughs-style “cut and paste” beat poetry. Enigmatic technicolour doorknob! Restless meerkat harbls! Antiquated velveteen renal foyer macadamias! Pickled milkshake Siberian antimacassar doughnuts! Constipated mongeese Cousteau sunshine wounded! Baffled fruit cocktail Batman fungoid cylinders! Rumpled nanosecond terrycloth pantaloons! Sensitized furniture millennium dentifrices!What does it all mean? I feel more wise and intellectual and artsy already.

11. You can stay informed about politics that were last relevant in 2004, or read 12 messages a day from people claiming to be Barack Obama. I still get pro-John Kerry spam. Dudes, I was really pissed off a few years ago, too, but it is time to let it go. I’m pretty sure Kerry has.

12. If you have too much money, you can buy stocks from spammers. I always trust unsolicited financial advice I get from total strangers who can’t spell!

13. If you still have too much money, you can refinance your mortgage, even if you don’t actually have a mortgage. Is that awesome or what?

14. Still looking for ways to get rid of all those pesky dollars clogging your wallet? There’s always Internet Gambling! You are guaranteed to win! Those gambling sites aren’t in it to take your money at all. Awesome!

15. I am particularly impressed by phishing attempts to scam me out of, for example, my eBay data when I haven’t used eBay in years and am no longer an account holder at the site (as far as I know). ZOMG, my non-existent account has been compromised! Maybe “I” will win some cool auctions and have interesting packages arrive at my door. Dumbasses.

16. The celebrity gossip spam is also pretty cool, especially since I rarely pay attention to celebrities and have no idea who half of these supposedly famous people are. By spamming me with celebrity gossip, I stay “in the know” without even having to glance at the tabloids when I check out at the grocery store. However, since I don’t know who most of these people are, or simply don’t give a crap, why should I click those enticing links? I don’t care who “Shia LeBoeuf” is dating. (I’d swear that was a made-up name, but it rings a bell. I don’t know if it is a he or she, though. It has no relevance to my life.)

17. The pseudo-intellectual spam is also pretty nifty. LaPlante quoted one of his favourites:”To ensure the equality of the diagonals, we make use of a little testing-rod. Thus the body has the same energy as a body of mass on a Euclidean and Non-Euclidean Continuum. The surface of a marble table is spread out in front of me.” This text is then followed by instructions to get low prices on little blue pills.

18. MySpace had its own special spam, remember? I got spam for free gift cards, fugly designer crap, and more naked people. (These people now spam pictures of awful athletic shoes and overpriced heels and try to get people to fall for ‘free gift cards’ on Facebook.) Anyway, there sure are a lot of naked people out there. I see a naked person for free every day, man.

19. Learn Spamlish! I get ten spam-mails a day that say strange crap like “Buadtzy your mmpnllhdjmreds hyhsjijtnfonline.” (An actual quote.) Say what? I think that translates to “Click on me and verify your e-mail address is legitimate! Send me all your money!”

20. Learn what not to search for via GoogHoo, and you won’t get as much cool spam. Spam works like Darwin Awards to week out the weak and gullible! If you don’t have enough spam, here’s how to get some: search for free crap online.

The 8 Most Dangerous Search Terms:

  • Free screensavers
  • Bearshare
  • Screensavers
  • Winmx
  • Limewire
  • Download Yahoo Messenger
  • Lime wire
  • Free ringtones

Across all searches, up to 6 percent of the sites were flagged as dangerous, notes the BBC. “Even a single visit to a dangerous site can have serious and lasting implications for the average internet user,” Edelman and Rosenbaum wrote in their report.

(While we’re at it, don’t be stupid and use an easily-guessed password anywhere.

The top 10 most common passwords:

  • Your user name
  • Your user name followed by 123
  • 123456
  • password
  • 1234
  • 12345
  • passwd
  • 123
  • test
  • 1

Yes, people do this. Argh! I had to keep my mother from choosing one of the variations on this list.)

21. If you have spam, you have a guaranteed hot topic to bitch about and most people will happily bitch right along with you. Spam creates unity and agreement!

22. No free lunches! You could probably rid yourself of 99% of your spam by adding a mail filter that scans for the word “free” and immediately zorches with extreme prejudice any email you get that includes that word. Of course, there would be some false positives. Train your friends to never use the word “free,” then. Or “viagra.” Or “teens.” Easy! Or you can be like me and never check your email until all your buddies get mad at you and stop emailing you. Then all you ever have in your INBOX is spam, and can just “delete all” without reading anything. What a time saver!

23. Spammers NEVER get my name right. This is an easy way to zorch the tardburgers who try to sell me pills for my non-existent penis. As a bonus, I get to collect new and improved misspellings of my real name and a bunch of wacky new aliases. Do you think I can be “Kangaroo D. Castanet”? I kind of like that one.

24. Wow, free legal software! I believe that I can get the entire Macromedia suite, or all Adobe products or MicroSmurf Vista X, on dialup, no less, just by clicking a link! Rock on! I’ll be sure to trust this unsolicited spam mail from a total stranger who wants to send me to “” They are only thinking of my well-being and such, of course.

25. Free empty flattery and friendships! I get told via spam every day that I am someone’s friend, or a smart shopper, or clever investor, or super sexy. Wow! They really know me!

So, hey, spam is great! Love your spam.

Since all spammers are going to be poked in the eye with lemon-and-tabasco-dipped spikes and roasted over flaming pits of brimstone while boy bands serenade them for all eternity, at least once they die, you can rest assured that ignoring spam is your mission from God. Put on your sunglasses, grab your smokes, and brush up on the Blues.

The flaw with ignoring spam, alas, is that it doesn’t give up and go away. If I ignore the Jehovah’s Witnesses who traipse through my ‘hood every other week or so, and refuse to stop whatever far more interesting activity I am engaged in to get up and answer the door, they eventually stop knocking and ringing the bell and wander off to bug someone else. If only spam was as accommodating.

A ‘Something Awful’ Internet Classic: The Beepocalypse

I’ve been a long-winded such-and-such lately, so here’s the Kitten Break equivalent of a pause in my journal: Something Awful member Flannel Bob’s Epic Bee War. This link has scads of big pictures. If you don’t think the pictures are worth the downloading time, though they probably are, I’ve included text descriptions.

Posted by Something Awful forum member “Flannel Blob” on 2 February, 2004: “Oh dear lord! Bees!”
“I am visiting my family in Florida for the holidays. I was chillin’ at my sister’s house when we looked out back and noticed a swarm of honeybees congregating on their swingset. There are a lot of kids around, including my sister’s 3 kids. They were inside at the time, fortunately.”

(image: a cloud of hundreds of bees flying hither and yon, converging upon a swingset)
“Fuckin’ Bees!

(image: a poo poo [the Something Awful word filter substitution for “shit”] load of bees clinging to a swingset crossbar)
“A few minutes later they had calmed down. We were guessing they were disturbed from their hive and decided to come here, or something.”

(image: stucco exterior wall of house with one or two bees emerging from a tiny hole.)
“This is where the bees were coming from. A hole in the house behind my sister’s place. We told the landlady about it and she didn’t seem to care or want to be bothered that she was renting a house to people that had loving [SA-speak for “fucking”] BEES living inside it.”

(image: close-up of ball o’ beez)
“The neighbor called a bee removal company and they said they wouldn’t come out unless we paid a hefty fee, but he did recommend waiting until dark and go buy some stuff from Home Depot and squirt them with it and that should kill them off.”

(image: more bees than you have ever seen in your life)
“Well that plan was OK except for 2 things. 1 was that my sister’s husband is crazy. The 2nd thing is we didn’t want to wait that long nor spend any money. So we did the next best thing. Started loving with the bees.”

(image: ball hitting Million Bee March and scattering it)
“My bro in law chucks a tennis ball at the clump of bees, that was the size of a basketball. He knocked off a fist sized clump of bees, which eventually just flew back up into the main clump.”

(image: bees in a puddle on the ground, looking perplexed, gathering their bee thoughts)
“That was pretty boring, so we decide to try something a little bigger….”

(image: redneck brother-in-law proudly brandishing what looks like a bumper. something we all habve just lying around at our houses)
“Yeah, a 40lb trailer hitch for a Dodge Caravan.”

(image: brother in law chucking hitch in the general vicinity of the bees)

(image: hitch making contact, bees forcibly evicted from bar, falling in one solid mass)
“CLANG! We have bees in freefall! Did I mention he is severely allergic to bees?”

(image: the first of many snapshots that show the brother in law fleeing for his life in the background and angry insects in the foreground)

(image: yep, it’s a pile o’ beez, all right.)
“Pile O Bees”

(image: beez regain foothold on innocent playground equipment)
“The bees dust themselves off, and resume taking over the swingset. Every single one pretty much flew back up into a ball of bee death.”

(image: yipes! more beez!)
“At this point it was clear these little assholes weren’t getting the message. Their arrival in my sister’s property was an act of aggression, and we weren’t going to stand for it. So it was time for some redneck engineering:
(image: Rube Goldberg-esque contraption and brother in law proudly holding attached rope leash)
“Bee incinerator contraption:
– 30 feet of rope
– 1 large fire pit
– 1 science project board
– miscellaneous rags and a bedsheet
– gas”

(image: brother in law or pyro accomplice pouring petrol into metal grill-thing)
“Fill ‘er up! Slide the incinerator under the bees and….”

(image: FWOOSH)

(image: fire! firefirefire!)

(image: beez. dead beez. their ded is not pastede on yey, they r rilly rilly ded zomg)

(image: survivor beez plotting bee revenge)
“Amazingly some bees still survived the first wave. What should we do next?”

(image: enter the can man. *Metallica riffs here*)
“The next ingredient is 1.5 quarts of PAINT THINNER”

(image: Fire!! FireFireFire!!)
“OH YES!!!!”

(image: bee corpses littering yard, cancerous gouts of smoke)
“12/23/2003 NEVER FORGET”

(image: beez singing Gloria Gaynor’s greatest hit)

(image: FIRE!!! FIRE!FIRE!!FIRE!!! huge mushroom cloud of flame and black smoke)

(image: close up of what’s left of Rube Goldberg device and charred bee remains)
“Tonight we are having Roast Bee.”

(image: *playing “Taps”* Bee Genocide)
“The Aftermath.”

(image: bee-free backyard, human soldiers with no remaining facial hair, melted lawn and swingset bits)
“Number of allied casualties (er, stings): 0
Number of bees killed: est. 10,000
Number of bee survivors: about 25 or so”

(image: fire…and bees)
“When I close my eyes, I see fire…and bees.”

Update 1:
jacert posted:
“What camera did you use?”

“It’s a Canon Digital Rebel XT and I was using a 28-135IS lens. In daylight it is easy to use a fast shutter speed to freeze the action like that.

We did call around about how to remove bees and the only advice we got was deal with it yourself unless we wanted to pay a huge premium for having them come out on a holiday weekend. Nobody said anything about getting a beekeeper. In hindsight that would be been a good idea, albeit pretty boring.

This was a chance for him and I to relive some of our childhood shenanigans. We grew up on the same street, and fire was a regular part of our lives back then.

The hole is in the rental property behind the swingset. We don’t know if they did something to cause the hive to evacuate or if it was part of the hive breaking off to start anew.

There were no bees in sight at dusk. Mission Accomplished! Thanks and glad so many can appreciate what we did today. It was fun. despite inhaling all the strange fumes.”
Update 2:
(image: large clump of beez prior to Bee Holocaust of 2003)
“A little more detail. Thanks for the comments guys.”

Update 3:

(image: close-up of beez so fine that you can see every wing vein and body hair of each bee)
I am just learning how to use this camera and post-process in CS2. Jesus. I had no idea I could get this kind of detail.
“I feel kinda bad for the little fuckers now. Oh well, they made their fatal mistake when they went into my bro-in-law’s back yard. There was no way they could coexist in a neighborhood full of kids. Like I said, the beekeeper would have been an option, but not on a holiday weekend.”


Something Awful is a pay-for-play site, but you can see this and at least one of the five pages in the thread for free. Some of the commentary is as funny as the original post. Comments preceded by “image” and in parentheses are mine, all the rest is the wit of Flannel Blob.



I do not condone or support the wholesale destruction of our friends the honeybees. Should you find that you have a bee-related emergency situation at your home, do not break out the Napalm. Call your local beekeeper! Fast (and probably free, as bee colonies are pricey) removal, and the ball o’ beez can be relocated to a hive far, far away from you, where they’ll make a new home and get crackin’ on manufacturing you some delicious honey. Yay for honey!

Plotting the death of Huge Scary Evil Black Wasps Of Doom are another matter. Death to all bastard wasps invading my home. Death, I say. Fire was seriously considered as a lethal and permanent deterrent. In the end, it was the entire contents of a lowly can of Aqua*Net, found rusting away in the back of my grandmother’s bathroom cabinet, that sent the wasp to wasp heaven.

P.S. “OH THE BEEMANITY” cracks me up every single time. Classic.

So You’re Thinking About Breaking Into My Car…

Dear Neighbor:

So You’re Thinking About Breaking Into My Car.

We should probably get something out of the way right off the bat. LOOK at my car. Does it look like the vehicle of a person with money? Your eyes do not deceive you. That big dent in the side where an asshole stove my door in and drove off without leaving a note? It has been there for three years, because I am not rich. Eating and paying bills took precedence over getting a door ding taken out. My decision was made easier when I realized that the cost to bang that dent out would cost me more than my car is actually now worth. Its Kelley Blue Book value is “Pay the buyer $50 to haul it off.”

Let’s say you are really jonesing for some crack and don’t care that I probably do not have a hidden bag of gold tucked under the passenger seat. You want some delicious narcotic goodness, and there’s a chance there might be something worth selling inside my beat-up old car. You’re willing to take that chance!

Here’s a handy guide to what is actually in my car:

  • Home-burned CDs in unmarked paper sleeves. Not only are these guaranteed to have NO music whatsoever that you might like (or even have heard of), you certainly couldn’t get anyone to buy them from you. They won’t even play unless your CD player reads MP3 files.
  • An ancient and frayed beach towel. I have a pet.
  • A bag of trash. Last time someone broke into my car, they felt compelled to dig to the bottom of my trash can and scatter the contents all over my car. Allow me to save you the trouble: It really is just a bag of trash. There’s room for more trash in it, or it would be just an empty bag.
  • A bunch of old maps–including maps for parts of the country we are not currently in–that are over 10 years old. The local maps may or may not acknowledge that we built a parkway and a new bridge twenty years ago. You can no longer cut through half the neighborhoods on the map, and that college has also closed the thoroughfare that used to cut 20 minutes off your travel time when going to the beach. I don’t go to the part of town with the new roads often but when I do, I know where I am going, thus I don’t need a newfangled map with accurate roads on it. I need a map for the part that hasn’t changed for 200 years and has a lot of one-way streets. I need it because locals expect me to know all the squares and one-way streets in this city by heart and I do not. If you go anywhere in town that does not include historic buildings, the map will not help you.
  • A phone book from 5 years ago. I thought I threw that out.
  • An opened bottle of water. It is probably teeming with germs by now. Again, I have a pet. They get thirsty.
  • Napkins, unused but old and grody.
  • An ancient French fry that fell in the one space I can’t reach from any angle directly between my seat and the console. It taunts me.
  • A bottle of someone else’s lavender-scented hand lotion. You can have that.
  • A bike light that used to flash a little red LED light and look somewhat like an alarm system, but it doesn’t work anymore. Which is why you contemplated breaking into my car.
  • The cheapest CD player stereo known to man, which only fits into about a dozen different vehicle types, most of which probably already have shitty stereos in them and thus do not need MY shitty stereo. I’m just saying. It is so cheap and useless, I don’t even bother hiding the faceplate.
  • A lighter that does not work 99% of the time.
  • 9 cents. One penny is pretty torn up, actually…so, 8 cents.
  • Two books, neither of which any self-respecting busy homie or Trustafarian white-boy-dreads-wearing drug dealer is going to be interested in. Old white people geneology? No. Crytography? Pretty sure the answer is still “no.”
  • One of those obnoxious free newspapers that wind up turning into mulch on my lawn if I don’t fish them out of the shrubs the asshats — who pretend they don’t understand me when I call and say “Stop with the fucking PennySavers, I don’t even look at them” — threw them into.
  • Clove cigarette butts in the ashtray, because littering sucks and sometimes I want to smoke in my own damn car, so eff you, Judgy McJudgerson.
  • A dead frog carcass left by a frog that managed to break into my car and then wedge itself down at the base of my rear window before dying and drying out. I haven’t found a tool thin enough to fish it out. It makes me both sick and sad. (If you do break into my car, can you try to remove it? That would be great.)

Well, that was disappointing. How about the trunk? Any fantastic stuff hiding in there? Alas, no.


  •  Micro-tire and useless jack. Dude, I can’t even afford a full-sized spare tire. Take a hint.
  • A “help, I broke down” road kit. Retail price: $6 new at Pep Boys. It is not new.
  • A wooden crate thing with homemade mix-tape cassettes in it. Yes, cassettes. Even though I no longer have access to a car cassette player.
  • An ice scraper (there you are, ice scraper!) that might possibly get used down here once every ten years or so.
  • A tiny gas can in case I run out of gas, something I have never once done. (I had a roommate who ran out of gas pretty much every other week, because she was lazy and hated pumping gas after work. Her gauges worked just fine. I have never understood that.)
  • A zippered bag with more homemade cassettes. You will hate every note of every song on each and every one of these, assuming you even have a cassette player and assuming you can read my handwriting.

Well, shit.

Hey, didn’t look in the glove box! Man, you are in for a treat.

Contents of glove box:

  • Every registration or tag or insurance-related piece of correspondence I have ever gotten pertaining to this car. These will do you no good whatsoever. They don’t even do ME any good, but I don’t know where else to put them.
  • A fairly useless car manual.
  • An even more useless car stereo manual that has no instructions about how to get it to stop flashing “DEMO” at me.
  • $1 thrift store sunglasses (unfashionable, bent).
  • A couple of dead pens.
  • A couple of dead batteries; AA, leaky.
  • A notepad, used.
  • A paperclip (small, rusty).
  • Menus, some from restaurants that went out of business five years or more ago, and which are not local.
  • A tire gauge, probably broken.
  • A mini-flashlight that I suspect does not work.
  • An emery board.
  • A crumpled pack of limp matches.
  • Non-functional cigarette lighter, thrown into glove box in fit of pique.
  • Useless old receipts for stuff I don’t remember buying.

In short, if you break into my car, you’re going to cost me a couple hundred bucks I can’t afford (because I will have to replace my window) just to make off with a bunch of shit that you might, if you are lucky, be able to pay someone else to throw away for you. There will be no cracky goodness.

We should also get serious for a minute. Your impulsive decision to ruin my day and break my stuff could end up REALLY fucking up YOUR day.

Check this out: Georgia Code – Crimes and Offenses – Title 16, Section 16-7-1:

(a) A person commits the offense of burglary when, without authority and with the intent to commit a felony or theft therein, he enters or remains within the dwelling house of another or any building, vehicle, railroad car, watercraft, or other such structure designed for use as the dwelling of another or enters or remains within any other building, railroad car, aircraft, or any room or any part thereof. A person convicted of the offense of burglary, for the first such offense, shall be punished by imprisonment for not less than one nor more than 20 years. For the purposes of this Code section, the term ‘railroad car’ shall also include trailers on flatcars, containers on flatcars, trailers on railroad property, or containers on railroad property.

(b) Upon a second conviction for a crime of burglary occurring after the first conviction, a person shall be punished by imprisonment for not less than two nor more than 20 years. Upon a third conviction for the crime of burglary occurring after the first conviction, a person shall be punished by imprisonment for not less than five nor more than 20 years. Adjudication of guilt or imposition of sentence shall not be suspended, probated, deferred, or withheld for any offense punishable under this subsection.

HOLY FUCK! You could go to jail for at least a year or as long as TWENTY YEARS just for stealing a bunch of worthless crap from a person too poor to fix the ugly dents on her shitty vehicle.

Between you and me: breaking rocks and rooming with Bubba the Buttpirate is not worth it, my friend. Not even for some delicious crack…not that you’ll be able to sell any of my worthless shit for drugs. No one wants or needs it.

Please don’t break my window. I’ll have to not eat for a few weeks to pay to fix it. It keeps the rain out. It’s kind of important.

Also, by the time you finally managed to read all of this, the surveillance cameras on the nearby buildings have gotten an excellent view of you. Smile, you’re on Candid Camera!

Look at Your Life. Look at Your Choices.


Rut row

Hey, Rush Limbaugh: Weren’t you going to relocate to Costa Rica if “ObamaCare” passed?

Hey Rush, weren’t you going to relocate to Costa Rica? It’s been ages since the Affordable Care Act was passed. It’s about time for you to book your flight.

Heads up, Costa Rica!!


Barack Obama: LOL, we haz healthcares nao.

Rush Limbaugh: I’m taking my toys and going…er…somewhere else! Like Canada!

Canada: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Rush: Well, then, I’m gonna go to…to…COSTA RICA! BRB, Costa Rica!

Costa Rica: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Rush: Er…well, I could move to…hmmm…

Argentina: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Austria: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Australia: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Belgium: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Brazil: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Canada: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Chile: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

China: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Cuba: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Cyprus: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Denmark: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Finland: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

France: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Germany: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Greece: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Iceland: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Ireland: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Israel: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Italy: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Japan: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Luxembourg: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

The Netherlands: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

New Zealand: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Portugal: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Russia: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Saudi Arabia: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Spain: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Sweden: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

South Korea: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Sri Lanka: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Ukraine: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

The United Kingdom: LOL, we haz universal healthcarez.

Rush: …Shit.

Greenland: It’s fucking cold here, so we bum off of Iceland and Denmark. Because they can haz universal healthcarez.

Afghanistan, Oman & Iraq: Dude, even WE haz some kind of universal healthcarez.

India: Hey! No universal healthcarez here!

North Korea: Nope. No can haz.

Burundi: We don’t haz much of anything. Come on down! But first, are you on Team Tutsi or Team Hutu? Answer carefully, fat man.

Sierra Leone: We can haz violent civil wars, sexual slavery, torture (including disfigurement and amputation), conscripted child soldiers, even cannibalism. No universal healthcarez, though! You’ll love it here!

Somalia: We are a Libertarian paradise! No government, no healthcare, no regulations, no nothin’! Come on down. Bring body armor.

Rush: Um…

Antarctica: Hey, man, you like sealz? I gotz sealz. And sno and ice. Lots of sno. Fucktons of sno. And sealz. But no healthcare! Pack a parka! For the sno! (I’m soooooo ronery….)

Oh, don’t worry, Rush. We know you were just bloviating, as usual, and weren’t really serious about your threat to leave. You didn’t leave when Obama was elected, you didn’t leave when Obamacare was passed, and you won’t leave when Obama gets re-elected. Just in case we were wrong, however, I’m sure we can find some people who would be delighted to help you pack, once you find some first world industrialized country without universal healthcare.

Problem is, there aren’t any.

Suck on it.


Life Lessons from Passive-Aggressive Notes

Things I have learned from

1. Roommates and co-workers generally suck.

2. People have strong opinions about parking.

3. Never bring a Hot Pocket to work for lunch; it will be stolen.

4. Some people wipe mucus on bathroom walls.

5. It is unlikely that your neighbors share your taste in music.

6. Dishes left unwashed eventually create an additional (green) roommate.

7. Most people and their pets FAIL at bathroom etiquette.

8. Don’t touch the thermostat!

9. Shut the building door or “possoms and lizzards” will come in.

10. It is possible for a male pube to end up at shoulder-height on a shower curtain.

11. People actually use thrift store dressing rooms as toilets.

12. There is no coffee fairy. 😦

13. No one’s mom works at the same workplace as they do.

14. A doodled smiley can be seriously aggressive and scary.

15. Never get a subscription to a newspaper in a communal building.

16. The people upstairs are fucking loud (and loudly fucking; see #20).


18. People like to flush a lot of weird things down toilets, unless those things happen to be poop. Then they dislike flushing.

19. Strangers will take offense if you smoke, party, or eat meat in your own home–so make sure they never find out.

20. The walls are thin and your sex noises are too loud and make Forever Alone Guy totes jellus.

21. The Coke Machine Guy is illiterate or likes to torment people by putting the wrong drinks in the wrong slots.


23. Grandmas are the World’s Champions at passive-aggression (and you should visit more often).

24. A hookah will catch a rug on fire.

25. Brevity is the soul of wit. Most people are half-wits.

26. There are a lot of un-medicated OCD sufferers out there.

27. There are a lot of filthpigs out there.

28. People suck.

29. Amount / length of note(s) corresponds directly to psychological instability / pent-up frustration of note-leaver



Team Brian


How to spot a passive-aggressive note:

1. The phrase “no offense”.

2. The word “newsflash.”

3. Lack of brevity. Bonus points for bad grammar and terrible spelling.

4. Overabundance of !!!s

5. Comic Sans or nearly illegible ‘folk artist” handwriting.

6. Topics to focus upon include: your shitty parking, your mother not working here, your slovenly habits, noise, theft, dog poop, stolen edibles

7. A pungent stench of indignation and outrage!

8. It’s unsigned.

9. Show and Tell: Note may be accompanied by a relevant object (“This is Mr. Dish Soap!”) or point towards a particular location.


11. You immediately want to murder the note writer.

12. Yes, even if they add a snarky smiley to the note.

Snake! On a bathroom floor! (Warning: this entry is rated NC-17 for Samuel L. Jackson content)

Never mind the exclamation points, I’m not all that scared of snakes.

This guy is huge, though. About four feet long and as big as a dollar coin all the way around. And he’s in the basement bathroom. Good grief.

Where’s Samuel L. Jackson when you need him?

“Dude, did you see Pulp Fiction?”

“Yeah, that guy Samuel L. Jackson is such a bad m-“

“Shut yo’ mouth!”

“I’m just talkin’ ’bout Sam!”

“We can dig it.”

“I think I found your problem, lady.”

*begin dream sequence*

Samuel L. Jackson: Describe what he looks like!

Me: He’s, um, black…bald…long…stripey…

Samuel L. Jackson: Does he look like a bitch?

Me: What?!

Samuel L. Jackson: DOES…HE…LOOK..LIKE…A BITCH?!

Me: NO!

Samuel L. Jackson: Well, okay, then. … WHAT?

Me: I’d just like to, you know, go to the bathroom without starring in the home version of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. I don’t own any hipwaders, yo.

Samuel L. Jackson: “The path of the righteous woman is beset on all sides by the inequities of the socio-economic level you occupy and the tyrannies of evil snakes. Blessed is he who in the name of charity and good will shepherds the weak through the valley of motherfucking snakes for he is truly his sister’s keeper, and the finder of lost reptiles. And I shall strike down upon the serpent with great vengeance and furious anger, those who attempt to poison and freak out my sisters when all they want to do is pee in peace. And you will know my name is Samuel L. Jackson when I lay my vengeance upon the snake!”

Me: YEAH! It’s a snake. In my bathroom! What’s up with that shit?!

Samuel L. Jackson: Motherfucking snakes in a motherfucking bathroom! Stand aside, fool, I’ve got it.

Snake: Oh, hello. Hey! What? Who? Blimey, it’ssss that guy! From that film! Who did that thing! Woah. How’ssssss it goin’, dude?

Samuel L. Jackson: Say ‘hisssss’ one more time, motherfucker!

Snake: Uh…ssssssay what?

Samuel L. Jackson: *divine retribution, possibly with sharp, pointy farm-implement, such as hoe or shovel*

Me: I TOLD you to get out of my damn bathroom. Stupid. I had to break out the Bad MotherFucker brand Snake-Be-Gone canned Whoop-Ass.

Samuel L. Jackson: Your sins, motherfucker! Do you repent?!

Snake: Hey! That ssssssmarts! Ouch! That hurtsssss! Yow! That’s not fair, givin’ a guy a ssssshot down there!


Snake: Lo, I be sssslain and ssssmote. *expiressss*

Samuel L. Jackson: Time for a Royale with Cheese. That’s a mighty fine burger.

Me: How about some freshly dead snake? Tastes like chicken!

*end dream sequence*

I’ve been catch-and-releasing little green frogs of various sizes for two months, I guess Snakey knows a good hunting ground when he sees one.

Wee Phwahwg, stay out of my house.

Last year I had a Snake Intruder who zipped under my bed downstairs. This left me slightly less complacent for two reasons. I did not want to wake up nose-to-flicking-tongue with a snake coiled up on the neighboring pillows. I also did not want to pick up a dead snake a few weeks later.

I went on a Great Snake Hunt lat year and never found him. This leads me to one of two conclusions: Snake One survived and has become Snake Two, OR Snake Two is a different, larger snake. The former conclusion means that Snake One survived on his steady diet of wee frogs and got much, much larger. The latter conclusion means that I probably have an unknown number of snakes living with me but not paying rent.

There are other conclusions possible, including one where, when I move, I find an entire NEST of the damned things down here. I prefer not to think about it.

I told Snake One that I’d live and let live if s/he’d stay hidden or find the way back outside. I hope that this discussion worked. All I know is that I never did end up sharing a bed with Snake One, or find Snake One in the shower stall, and what I don’t see doesn’t stress me out. Now I’ve told Snake Two that if s/he will oblige me by crawling into a handy container, I will put said container outside, which is where Snake Two should be. Time alone will tell if this happens.

I’d be a lot more nervous if I thought the Snakes were poisonous. Georgia is home to six species of poisonous snakes, and these guys do not look like rattlesnakes (canebreak / timber, pygmy, or eastern diamondback), southern copperheads, water mocassins / cottonmouths or coral snakes. I suspect it’s a common garter snake (though it could be a ribbon snake, they prefer wetter environments).

What I learned today:

Eastern Garter Snake (Thamnophis sirtalis): This species is found in a diversity of grassy habitats that are usually wet or damp, although not necessarily near permanent aquatic areas. It is usually less than 2 feet long, large specimens occasionally reach lengths greater than 3 feet. It is distinguished from all other Georgia species, except ribbon snakes, by the presence of three yellow longitudinal stripes down a dark body. Garter snakes have black lines on their lip scales, whereas ribbon snakes do not. Some garter snakes in Georgia have a checkered body pattern with poorly defined stripes. This species gives birth to live young, sometimes having more than 50 babies. Common garter snakes feed on earthworms, frogs, toads, salamanders, fish and tadpoles.

The only part that gives me pause is the several dozen live babies bit. I may be sharing a home with dozens of snakelets. The fun never ends.

Here’s a picture of my little buddy:

Sssssss! I have come to bring much unneeded excssssssitement to your day! Sssssscrew your grad ssssschool projectssssss! You musssssssssst now focusssss on ME! Then you mussssst wassssste time telling some friendsssss and total sssssssstrangerssss about me on Teh Intarwebzssss. Ssssssss!

Not so scary, is he?

If he had rattles or fangs, though, I’d be screaming just like my ass was on fire. Or if he was much bigger. Three or four feet or so is about my limit for free-range snakes….longer than my legs, and I get a little freaked out.

My cousin was an amateur herpetologist and he tried to freak me out repeatedly with his snake collection when I’d visit. Instead, I’d happily hold them all and ask questions, which disappointed him. I even cheerfully scooped clammy newts out of their tanks and handled them. The only beastie I couldn’t really deal with was the furry spider the size of a tea saucer. I held it once, but gladly never repeated the experience. I’m not into arachnids. Frankly, I prefer my pets to be furry, but I also prefer for them to be mammals. (Great. Now I have They Might Be Giants singing “Mammal” in my mind.)

Speaking of: ferret v. garter snake. Who do you think would win?

This is another reason I’m not too fussed. If Snake Two gets out of line, I’m sending in fanged mustalid reinforcements to weasel war-dance and dook him to bits. Right now Snake Two is hiding behind the water heater in the bathroom (or so I think!), and that’s fine by me.

PROTIP: Stop harassing Samuel L. Jackson about snakes whenever he gets on a plane.

Diary of an Internet-Savvy Cat using

 Day 1: I am intrigued by the opportunity to see who would be my ultimate love match. I shall condescend to take their stupid test. “Genghis Khunt”? *pees on keyboard and stalks off, tail in the air*

Internet-savvy cats

Day 2: My pets have left me alone in the house again, so I think I shall fill out this profile thing. Let’s see. About me. I love talking about myself. I am magnificent and very impressive. I shall get mates in litterbox-loads. Okay. My self-summary is as follows: “I am short, dark and very handsome, with silky fur. I enjoy cuddling, expressing my displeasure through the liberal application of urine on the Oriental carpet, torturing small mammals to death and leaving their heads in my pets’ slippers, and attempting to dig a tunnel to China in the potted ficus in the foyer. Miaou, miaou. I am also fond of long moonlit walks, singing, and meaningless catsex in dark alleys. Pfft. Let’s meet. Rowr. I need someone else to do my bidding and satisfy my every whim. Opposable thumbs a major plus! No fatties, baldies or dogs need apply.”

Day 3: I am chagrined to discover that no one has found my profile compelling. Perhaps I should post five pictures of my anus. I have a very attractive anus. My pets love it when I stick it in their faces for them to admire.

Day 4: OKCupid has sent me a note telling me my profile has been flagged for obscenity. No one appreciates the delicate contours of my rectum?! What?! I am aghast. Philistines! *pees on keyboard, bats mouse under desk, stalks off with tail in the air*

Day 5: Alas, I am still feeling a need for companionship. I will persevere! Maybe I should fill out more of my profile. Let’s see. The first thing(s) people usually notice about me: “I have mesmerizing yellow eyes and a very long tail. I’m told that chicks dig my whiskers. Very indie cred cool. I am very graceful, always manage to land on my feet. Hell, I am perfect in every way. I am always open to collecting new minions. Meyow. I am a night person. I stalk ghosts. Purrrr. I have a bad catnip habit, but am in recovery. And I have an exceptional butt, though OKCupid disagrees with me. Morons.” That should do it! I expect the woos to start any second now.

Day 6: Fell on head while jumping off of bookcase to chaise lounge. Picked self up and acted like I meant to do that, groomed self nonchalantly until pets stopped mocking me. So much for that “always lands on all fours” business. Harrumph. Tonight I will hork a big greasy fishy-smelling hairball directly in the centre of their enormous sleeping cushion. But, anyway, I totally forgot to check OKCupid until just now. Surely I have exceeded my mailbox limit from all the many woos and amorous letters sent to me. *checks* What the fuck?! This is unacceptable. No one appreciates the glory that is me! IDIOTS! *stalks off to sulk under the divan*

Day 7: My pets sense my despondent mood and have attempted to jolly me our of it by dangling rubber things and feathers tied to strings in front of my face. To get them off my ass for a while, I shall pretend to be greatly amused and bat at the damned things. Fools. If only I had opposable thumbs!! Tonight they dined upon surf and turf, which is apparently delicious. They then had the nerve to act puzzled when I turned up my nose at the foul-smelling glop they plopped into my dinner bowl. I don’t see THEM eating any of it. I am FAR too aggravated with life to log on tonight.

Day 8: My pets have been mentioning the “V word” around me. God damn it. Can’t a guy have a bad mood once in a while? Fine. I’ll eat some of the godawful fish-flavored dry cereal they have served me and let them touch my stomach for an hour or two. Perhaps I shall even purr. Anything to get them off my back. I mean, last time we visited the “V word”, a total stranger paused to admire my gorgeous posterior and then–indignity! insult! horror!–stuck a rubber-covered FINGER up it! And then stuck me with a silver pin thing. Which hurt just like a motherfuck, I am not even kidding. For my own good, my Aunt Fanny! So I pulled out all twenty of my switchblades and scratched the shit out of them, I tell you what. There’s no way I can log on while they are watching me like vultures eyeing roadkill. Crap.

Solitaire proves to be more intellectually stimulating than social networks for Mister Tibbs.

Day 9: I have apparently reassured my pets that all is well. Success! They have once again left me to my own devices in order to watch something called “American Idol” on the warm lighted box I like to nap upon. Now’s my chance to check OKCupid! Ooh, yay, I have an email! *reads* What the…? This mostly hairless human is wearing what looks like a dead cow and he wants to tie me up and stick strange pointy plastic things up my ass! No! NO! The ass is for worshipping, not having things stuck up it! Would that I could scratch some manners into them. Time to expand upon my profile. The SIX things I could never do without: “Hmm. Okay. [1] My scratching post. [2] Pets with opposable thumbs to open doors for me eight times an hour. [3] My squeaky mousie. Meyow! [4] A sunny spot to nap in. [5] Loyal subjects to do my bidding and accede to my every whim. [6] Catnip, though I’m not addicted. Really. I’m in a Catnip Anonymous group, I swear. It’s really helped me a lot. I’ve cut waaaaaay back.”

Day 10: I decide to take another quiz. Apparently I am going to die by age 12!! Why me, lord! Whyyyyy?! I’m in the prime of my life! I’m too young to be half dead already!! I hate this stupid site.

Day 11: I heard Mittens and Mr Boots copulating energetically outside my domicile last night. Mittens must be retarded or something. Mr Boots is orange, has six toes on each front paw, a chewed-up ear and he’s even missing an eye! And his rectum isn’t NEARLY as impressive as MINE. How is it that HE can get some nooky and I can’t even get a damn woo? Fucking hell. Not one damn e-mail on OK Cupid! This sucks. I attempted to get some mild satisfaction by mangling some pieces of furniture, but it didn’t help. Tomorrow I may eat a houseplant. But not the pointy one in the den. It tastes like farts smell and makes me gag. Maybe the fern in the kitchen. Yesss….excellent. Mua ha ha. That fern’s days are numbered.

Day 12: I must be a masochist. (Though I dare not mention this on OKCupid lest I get more mail from humans trying to cuff me to things and flog me with sticks. Humans are weird.) Okay, I’m back. I should fill out more of my profile. On a typical Friday night I am: “Attempting to kill my pets by weaving around their feet while they are walking around. Have almost succeeded; must try this at the top of the stairs. Since I sleep all day while my pets are out doing something called “a job”, I get to stay up all night keeping my pets awake for hours with ear-splitting, incessant pleas for attention, food or a door to be opened for me. Occasionally I devour a particularly succulent houseplant and force myself to vomit on one of their favorite chairs. I enjoy hunting, climbing, back massages, and drinking water out of the kitchen sink.” There. *attempts to save* What the hell?! Why have a “keep me logged in until I sign out” option if it never fucking works?! This is the sixth time this hour I’ve had to log back in. Stupid OKCupid. GAH!

Day 13: Success! I have received another e-mail! Waitamminit. 8000 miles away? What language is this? What does “u r 2 hawtt, wan 2 fk?” mean? Is that even English? Where does this person live, Mars? Unacceptable. I shall type a reply.“Rowr! Pfffft!!! HISSSSS!!!!! Growl!” There. Hopefully that has expressed the exact degree of my displeasure accurately. *pees on keyboard, bats mouse under desk, sheds a pound of fur into the back of the printer, stalks off with tail held high in the air*

Day 14: I’m giving this thing one last try. Back to my profile. The most private thing I’m willing to admit here is: “I actually enjoy licking my own bum. I am anal-retentive about maintaining excellent hygeine.” (Ooh, I made a pun! I am so witty! I love me! I rock!) What else? “I never take a bath, however. I eat fish heads. Yowl, murrowl. I enjoy racing around like a meth addict, usually with pupils the size of nickels. I killed four dust mice today, in lieu of real ones. They did not taste half as good as a real decapitated rodent. I also enjoy eating spiders. They are delicious.”

Day 15: I received a woo from a confused skunk named Pepe Le-something tonight. I am going to have to set this guy straight. Sigh.

Day 16: My pets accidentally left the back door ajar tonight, and I had wild catsex in the backyard with Mittens. Had a screaming match about it with Mr Boots. He shouted something like “That’s my ho, but I DGAF! Me n my bro buds r gona kick ur asss!!” What a loser. If he was a human, he’d wear a backwards baseball cap and drive a giant vehicle with an impractical gasoline consumption rate. I just know it. Loser!

Day 17: I signed on to MySpace today. Lots of hot pussies on there. I think my romantic woes are nearing an end. Hallelujah! *deletes OK Cupid profile*