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If you can't laugh at yourself, you should
at least be able to laugh at other people.
Sandbaggers have feelings, too. They may only
display their feelings by gleefully rubbing their
hands with a burning glow in their eyes after
stealing rating points from unsuspecting victims,
and they may be annoying, but they do have feelings.
Looking for work today is difficult. Cherish your work;
be more understanding of those who need work.
I want to understand the bodily mechanism that allows
us to produce only one color of solid waste, whether
we consume nothing but Cheese Puffs for three days,
or marshmallows, or carrots, or any odd non-brown food.
I find it interesting that anyone with a New York
accent sounds stupid to Southerners, while anyone
with a Southern accent sounds stupid to New Yorkers.
I once shot an eagle on a par five. Admittedly,
my drive took a lucky line and bounced a few times
down the cart path, landing about two yards from
the fringe.... Up and down from there was easy.
I'd much rather have a hole-in-one, though, except
for the fact that golf is a game for rich drooling idiots.
Eating pizza without garlic is like
being infatuated with a beautiful girl
who wants to remain "just friends".
When I go to bed:
my thoughts are clear;
my eyes see clearly;
my hair is straight;
my limbs are orderly;
my sheets are orderly.
When I wake up:
my thoughts are confused;
my eyes are cloudy and sensitive;
my hair is a mess;
my body is sprawled out;
my sheets are wrapped around me or wadded up.
Because of this, I imagined as a child that someone
had picked me up in the middle of the night and
thrown me back down on my bed--perhaps repeatedly--
and that I had somehow slept through it all.
Maybe he sneaks up and grabs me by the collar and
belt (sleeping in clothes is a practice reserved
only for the most-drunken of nights), lifting me
up and shoving me back down; maybe he grabs me by
the ankles and slides me around on my bed, laughing
quietly to himself....
To this day, each night before I fall asleep,
I still imagine that perhaps *this time* I'll
catch the guy.... He'll make a mistake. I'll feel
those hands tighten on my ankles just before I drift off,
and I'll be up like a bolt and pound his face.
It could happen.
I've interacted with many users of temp handles during
my years here at Caissa, but a few really stand out in
my mind. Creative handles attract my attention.
One such handle was "ilikemeatballs". This guy sent me
an unsolicited note via Caissa mail, and a short series
of notes ensued between us:
ilikemeatballs: guess what? I like meatballs
Fingerly: Swedish meatballs?
ilikemeatballs: sure, why not
Fingerly: I like Swedish meatballs, but I like
the Swedish bikini team even more.
ilikemeatballs: if it's all the same to you, I'd
rather have the meatballs
A couple of sandbagger handles I enjoyed were "poopypants"
and "inahurry". They could have been the same guy for all
I know.... "inahurry" was extremely fast at G/2.
I cracked up every time I played him!
We've had some strong winds in Dallas recently.
I was getting something out of my car during a
strong gust, and noticed a large object blowing
down the street.... It was a tent. Not far
behind it was a giant beach ball, bouncing along.
I ran over and grabbed both of them, and I managed
to wedge them into the corner of a low fence in
the front yard of a corner lot, visible to all
who passed by. Efforts to find the owner failed,
but the items were gone an hour later.
I don't know why I seem to be the only person
around when things like this happen.
Nothing quite satisfies like taking a hefty dump.
I have yet to wear a Burger King kiddie crown while
playing internet chess, but I think it will happen soon.
I had a dream last night that I had a banana and
two apples. I was happy with them. Then, I noticed
that my friend Dave had a cucumber and two grapefruit.
Even though I prefer bananas and apples over cucumbers
and grapefruit, the sheer size of my friend's foods
left me feeling somehow...inadequate. I wonder why.
I have not only stapled my thumb, but I have
also witnessed a boy throwing a tied-together
pair of shoes over a telephone line.
I hate the sound it makes when my seat belt doesn't retract
as it should, and I inadvertently close my car door on it.
Once or twice a day, I think of McDonalds' soft
serve ice cream cones. Not of the cones, really,
but of the way the ice cream comes out of the
machine, and of the work involved in pulling the
handle in order to dispense the chocolate ice cream.
Trees are a weird thing.
Adults should read Dr. Seuss books more often.
Art Project: Create a tableau of 19 hexagon-shaped
black-and-white two-tone portraits. In the center
is Bill Clinton; at the six corners of the tableau,
clockwise from the top, are Billy Idol, Mr. T.,
Muhammad Ali, Bert Convy, JFK, and Elvis Presley.
The remaining twelve portraits fit into the spaces
between each of the key seven portraits: each of
these other twelve portraits will be a morphing of
two faces. Around the perimiter of the tableau,
Billy Idol will morph into Mr. T, who in turn morphs
into Ali, who morphs into Bert Convy, who morphs
into JFK, then Elvis, then Billy Idol. The inner
ring of portraits will consist of these six figures
morphing into Bill Clinton, smiling in the center.
I think it would be cool.
One man's visitation of the urination station is
another man's deposit at the First Porcelain Bank.
I only pose nude with my discus and silver body paint.
Two little girls ran up to me on the street the
other night, each with a Twizzler stuck in each
nostril. One of them screamed at me: "We're
going to gross-out the *boys* this time! We're
gonna eat these Twizzlers after we pull them
out of our nose!" They were really excited!
Following is a list of my past and present nicknames:
Fingers
The Hammer
Hammer
The Hamster
Hamster
Farmer Bob
Logic Bob
Bob the Slob
Home-Bob
Beelzebob
Beezlebob
Bobby-Wobby
Bobbly-Wobbly
Mister Happy(!)
Rat Boy
Boy Wonder
I worked for a computer parts reseller a few years ago,
and ended up investigating a few cases of fraud during
my time there. One thief, based in Brooklyn, New York,
was setting up multiple customer accounts and ordering
progressively larger quantities of expensive new Western
Digital hard drives. This brazen fellow was setting up
each false customer account with a personal or company
name that was an obvious reference to the word "penis".
One of my coworkers discovered a problem with a company
called "JT Crack Repair" and an individual going by the
name of "John Thomas", each in Brooklyn, and each ordering
WD HDs, paying with bad checks. Each "customer" was having
the HDs sent to a different address, though. My female
coworker didn't notice the penis reference. Out of
curiosity, I ran a query to isolate customers from a few
Brooklyn Zip codes, and found four more customer accounts
that fit the profile. Two were permutations of "John Thomas",
such as "J. Thomas", while the others were "Richard Mann"
and "Frank Garcon". Anyone who has seen *Pulp Fiction*
should know that "garcon" means "boy" in French.
The fellow was caught by Federal agents. I never found
out what happened to him after that.
I went to school with a guy named Steele.
In the first grade, I saw him eat paste.
As a senior in high school, he reportedly
ate a chunk of formaldehyde-preserved cow
heart in AP Biology on a dare. He showed
up at our ten-year reunion, so I guess he
turned out okay. Hopefully, he will show
up at our 25-year reunion....
If you're ever drunk in Dallas and want to play live
blitz on Tuesday night, stop by the New Amsterdam pub
in Deep Ellum. You might find me there...but I would
be one of your weaker opponents! One of the guys there
has maxed out on ICC at 1960 (he seems much better,
and he's lightning-quick!), and another was responsible
for editing the 21st Century Edition of Nimzowitsch's
*Chess Praxis* for Hays Publishing. These guys are good!
Kewpie dolls.... Why the fascination?
In Texas, "cattywompus" is a word used to
describe a physical object that is lopsided,
and it's usually a building. For instance,
you might hear someone say: "That old barn's
all cattywompus." This would mean that the
barn in question is leaning to one side, and
probably twisted somehow. The term is akin to
"catty-cornered", a more-widespread term
used to denote something that is diagonally
across an intersection from another point of
interest: "The beer store is catty-cornered
across from the Dairy Queen." I don't know
what "wompus" means....
Do you feel more like you do now than when you got here?
I sometimes like to back up toward someone, lift a leg like a dog,
bend over slightly, and make farting sounds with my mouth.
Nothing ever "turns up missing".
I think it's okay to admit when you're stumped.
I even think it's okay--if not preferable--
to admit when you have made a major mistake.
More people should be so bold. Really.
Bassoons are long, bulky woodwind instruments.
If you know a cute high school girl who plays
the bassoon, you should ask her how heavy it is.
After that, you should ask her if she has ever
had to go anywhere with it on a bus. If you
do this, you will make her smile. Trust me.
The Dallas street known most for prostitution
is Harry Hines Blvd. Coincidence?
When I feel bloated after a particularly large
meal, I often find myself patting or rubbing my
belly. Sometimes, I may even let a finger slip
into my taut navel. When this happens, I usually
end up thinking about those in-the-shell egg
beaters you see on late-night infomercials, and
I end up wishing that a larger navel model existed,
strictly for the purpose of relieving that bloated
feeling. Of course, it would never work, as it
would only tear your all-important innards to pieces...
but if it *could* work, wouldn't it be great?
Right now, I'd like to lick the crumbs
out of the corner of a bag of Cheetos.
Everyone picks their nose. Even people who claim
that they never pick their nose--that they always
use a tissue--usually end up jamming a tissue-
wrapped finger up there to get at a pesky booger.
Even if they claim never to do this, and they
adhere to a non-jamming tissue policy all the days
of their lives, the fact remains that we all
invariably end up getting snot on our fingers
when it soaks through the tissue. So get over it.
Nothing aggravates me more during rush-hour traffic than
getting caught behind someone driving an SUV slowly with
no passengers or cargo while talking on a cell phone.
Actually, I think rush-hour drive times in Dallas would
improve by 50% if everyone traded in their SUVs for cars.
They're slow; no one can see around them; they anger
other drivers, causing them to make snap decisions; snap
decisions result in a brake light domino effect.
You own an SUV? Move! Get out the way!
Word of the Day: POLYTESTICULITIS
n. (PAH-lee-tes-TICK-yoo-LIE-tis)
a medical condition characterized by
the possession of multiple testicles.
Ex.: When Johnny started speaking poorly
of my mother, it really aggravated my
polytesticulitis--I resorted to fisticuffs.
I believe there are enough people on Earth
such that at least *one* of us here is a
veteran vegetarian veterinarian named Vern.
If I'm right about this, I suspect that
Jim Varney knew him personally.
Strange.... Last weekend, I arrived at the
realization that--somewhere along the way over
the last ten years--I've finally learned how
to talk to strippers. They love me now! They
seem to pick up on my confidence instantly:
upon entering a club with a few of my friends,
I'm the one in our group who gets attention
immediately. By the time my friends finally
persuade a fly-by-night stripper to give them
a lap dance (with little or no conversation
before or after), I've already had a few hotties
plop down on my lap and chat for awhile, as well
as giving me quite a show! I don't think it
has anything to do with the flashing neon "CHUMP"
sign I've rigged to my cap, complete with
downward-pointing arrow: I'm convinced these
girls can detect my genuine dudeness, and they
really want my mojo! I've really grown up, I guess.
I don't have to look furtively around the strip
clubs anymore, trying to learn from all of the
studs in there just how to talk to women: *I'm*
the guy everyone wants to emulate now, and
I'll tell ya...it's all gravy from here!
Sometimes, when you're really down, all of the
happy times in your past seem like a hollow
joke, as though it was just a transitory flash
of neon...just smoke and mirrors--an illusion.
Other times, when you're really happy and elated,
all of your remembered disappointments fade into
nothingness. You feel like you're really *living*
for a change: nothing can hold you back! Most of
the time, though, everyday humdrum existence meets
neither extreme. These are the moments that
trouble me the most--if I stop to think about them,
that is.... It seems that everydayness has a way
of dragging people slowly into despair. Not this,
really, but the fear of the despair that comes with
failure prevents people from trying to succeed, and
they expect nothing more than everydayness from
themselves...and they sometimes get less than this.
I don't think life is supposed to be a rollercoaster
with one big ascent at the beginning, a few exciting
drops and twists in the middle, and then hills of
diminishing size as the speed winds down at the end.
This may be why I occasionally imagine a pair of
images of Jack Pallance as I clutch my beer mug in a
crowded bar: one, of him imparting the secret of life
to Billy Crystal in *City Slickers*, and the other of
him doing one-armed pushups on stage at the Oscars
as an elderly gent. Jack Pallance is a real man.
A dude's dude. That's really all I wanted to say.
I guess I could have just said "Jack Pallance is a
dude's dude" and been done with it.... But, no. I had
to go into this awkward long-winded speech. I'm sorry.
Isn't it strange how some house flies have a
green or orange tint? What's up with that?
Whenever I find myself thinking ill thoughts of someone
else, I employ a little trick.... I imagine that the
person I'm thinking poorly of has the ability to read
my mind. By doing this, I often find it's easier to
avoid maintaining ill will toward most people who give
me those little annoyances that--in some people--build
up over time and manifest themselves in the form of
ulcers or other medical maladies.
Whenever this trick doesn't work, I try imagining the
offender has a large, poorly-drawn tattoo of Tweety on their
left buttock, and it's a source of profound embarassment.
I want to rig up a high-speed video camera in order
to capture the mid-air collision of two fast-moving
Skittles candies. We need to be able to see tiny
fragments of green and orange candy shell spray in
every direction as the two semi-soft cores warp and
reform themselves into one ball in slow motion.
I believe this footage would sell candy! Perhaps
I should have approached the manufacturers of
Skittles before I went public with this idea....
There I go again, just giving away my best ideas!
Has anyone else noticed that orange
is not offered as a font color on MIPs?
Well, on 3/6/2003, I finally played my 10,000th live
game on Caissa.... I suppose I should feel some sort
of satisfaction at having reached this milestone.
But really, all I feel is a need to evacuate my
bowels. I wish I could learn what percentage
of these games were played against sandbaggers.
I'm guessing that the number is somewhere between
500 and 2,000. I didn't lose all of 'em!
If you ever drive several hours to a casino,
make sure you leave enough money in your car
to buy enough gas to get home comfortably.
I believe the following quote applies
especially to sandbaggers:
"Chess is a contest between two men in which there
is considerable ego-involvement. In some way it
certainly touches upon the conflicts surrounding
aggression, homosexuality, masturbation and
narcissism which become particularly prominent in
the anal-phallic phases of development."
--Reuben Fine, *The Psychology of the Chess Player*
If they made an adult-sized Hippity-Hop, I'd buy it.
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