Tag Archive: Race


Race Day

Written Monday, May 26, 2008 @ 6:22pm

Ghetto NASCAR It’s Memorial Day weekend again, and every American knows that means parades of old-aged pensioners, picnics with friends and family, backyard barbecuing, and motorsports. In fact, I barbecued last night, and those hamburgers were awesome! However, this morning, I can’t seem to stay out of the toilet. Tina seems okay, though, so I don’t think it was last night’s hamburgers. Whatever… all goddamn day I’ve been making what seems to be hourly trips to the porcelain crap catcher. A friend of mine parodies C. Montgomery Burns… “Excrement.”

Since I’m stuck inside tethered to the shitter, I watched racing on television. The 92nd running of the Indianapolis 500 and 49th running of the Coca-Cola 600 took place, and I watched ‘em both. I’ve talked about the Indy 500 before, but watching NASCAR is something new for me to be watching. However, I’m by no means one of those sleeveless flannel shirt-wearing, Busch beer-drinking Southern rednecks or Appalachian hillbillies. You know the type, the double-wide trailer-living dumbass that eats, sleeps, and shits their favorite driver by plastering stock car numbers on every worldly possession, including their vehicles and muffintop women. Holy hell, man!

After 1,100 miles and 2,400 left turns, I noticed something. There’s no black people in motorsports. Yeah, I know, not an original observation, but I found it funny. Tina and I started making fun of the sport, and invented our own sanctioned racing series — “Popeyes Fried Chicken Series.” You won’t find this racing series on FOX, ESPN, or even the SPEED Channel, oh no. Thanks to a multi-million dollar deal, the Popeyes Series races will be seen on BET. And just as the Truck Series is different than the Cup Series, so too shall the Popeyes Fried Chicken Series. Here’s some of the highlights:

  • There’s no more pace car. Instead, the Popeyes Series will use a chase car painted like a police car with a red and blue light bar and sirens that will stay out on the track during “normal” conditions. This will encourage fast driving and aggression. In the event of caution, the chase car will leave the track so the drivers can resume slower speeds.
  • When a car crashes, Popeyes Series drivers must bail out of their car as fast as possible and run like hell from Race officials in the chase car and television helicopters flying overhead. If caught, the driver loses points in the standings.
  • The vehicles may only be a 1971 to 1996 Chevrolet Impalas, any year Chevrolet Caprices, second generation Buick Regals, or any 1985 to 1993 Cadilac Coupe de Ville. The wheels must be 22 inches or bigger and wrapped in anything but Goodyear tires. Here’s an example… and another… and another… and another… and another.
  • The drivers must blare hip hop music while racing, so loud that the trunk lid and quarter panels rattle with each beat. They must also drive with one hand on the steering wheel and the other hand hanging out the window, without sitting upright in the driver’s seat.
  • To add a bit of a challenge to the race, each car will be equipped with an unregistered hand gun that may be used while passing to take other drivers out of the race, “drive-by” style. Points will be earned for every drive-by that results in a wreck.
  • While it may not meet normal NASCAR safety standards, all Popeyes Series drivers must wear pants that hang around the ass and expose at least six inches of underwear. Helmets are still required, but must have Kangol or FUBU printed them, and be worn sideways.
  • All cars must have a passenger seat, and drivers must fill that seat with one of his homies or one of his ‘hos. During pit stops, the pit crews may only supply Olde English 800 or Colt 45 to the driver.

Hopefully you’re laughing at all that nonsense, and not thinking I’m a racist. Racism is, basically, discrimination based on skin color. I’m definitely not discriminating against black people… I’m just making fun of the stereotypes. This is no different than the stereotypes of rednecks and hillbillies mentioned above, or the time I poked fun at the driving skills of Asian drivers 18 months ago, so don’t get your panties in a wad. In fact, here’s a picture of me looking apologetic.

Okay, I had planned on writing more. I made another graphic to segue into another “race” issue, but I think I’ll save it for another day when I’m not playing King Wafwot, ruler Bathroomia. Hope everyone has a great Memorial Day holiday.

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Long time, no see

Written Thursday, June 7, 2007 @ 9:25pm

big headed baby Holy fuck, it’s been a month and a half since I’ve updated this little waste of time. I have no excuse, except being exhausted from work… that, and I’m a lazy dick.

As most of you who read this bullshit already know, my days are hella long, but shorter than they were last Nobember. I’m up at 4:00am (commonly referred to as o’dark hundred). I leave the house just before 5:00am, get to work by 7:30am, leave work at 5:00pm, and if there’s no Asian drivers or left lane vigilantes, I’m home by 7:30pm. Bedtime rolls around at 10:00pm and I get to do it all over again in 6 hours. I hate this, but it wasn’t too bad, as open tickets in my department were usually completed by mid-afternoon. I was able to start an update during lunch, possibly complete a rough draft during the slow afternoon, and put the finishing touches on it before going to sleep. That all changed when the company that employs my sorry ass purchased an ICANN-accredited domain name registrar (as I mentioned in my April 10 update oh so long ago). My department handles all the issues from domain registrants. While things are starting to calm down, it’s still a huge drain on my time. I’ve probably spent a total of 8 hours looking at the Hosting ticket queue since the Registrar came online in late March. It feels that all my time is monopolized in the Registrar queues, which are usually filled with an assload of spam, sprinkled with a smattering of “English only from the knowledge of retarded registrants it comes from the translator.” Sometimes it’s like talking to Yoda’s retarded European cousin, Yodaski. “Goodly English I speak not. My domain name, renew I must or expire it will.” So, I guess what I’m saying is… I have an excuse. Laziness aside, after a day at work lately, I don’t want to go near a computer… weekends are spent sleeping… and sometimes this blog feels like work, and I can’t have that.

Speaking of work, things are going swimmingly for The Company. I don’t know much about it, and I probably shouldn’t talk about it anyway… so I’ll only mention that they signed a big contract that promises to take The Company to a whole new plateau. It’ll be nice to see us grow, even if we become something resembling an aborted Comcast fetus. Maybe us indentured servants will see a modest pay increase out of it all. It sure would be nice, since the price of gas is robbing me for all I got… like a ten dollar whore in a by-the-hour no-tell motel. Fuck, I need a low interest, long term loan just to pay my share of the carpool gas… goddamn raghead terrorists and their gas-peddling pusher refineries! At least the price is dropping some… I spend $45.00 at the pump now instead of $46.30. Time to buy a Pepsi.

Funny that I mentioned fetuses, because it’s definitely fucking spring. I have a house full of parrots that are full-swing into their springtime (albeit masturbatory) humping cycle. There’s more birdy jizz in those cages than in Lindsay Lohan’s stomach after an all night bender… and that’s a lotta jizz. Nearly every woman I know seems to be in their springtime mating cycle, too. Jesus Christ! They either just had a baby, are pregnant with a baby, want to have a baby, or being called “baby.” It’s like a fucking barnyard, man. I swear I heard Marlin Perkins narrating in my office last week. “We’ll wait here while Jim passes out some protection, and I’m not talking about the kinda of protection you can get with an insurance policy from Mutual of Omaha.”

The picture of Nirvana’s Nevermind cover was photoshopped (although I used GIMP) by me to be a crude representation of a newborn in our office. The baby was actually a girl, but the news was the baby was “6lbs 14oz, 18″ long, 14″ head full of hair!” Now, I’m a bright young old man, and I know the 14 inches referred to the circumference of the head, but I couldn’t help think of a baby with a giant head, and a 4-inch body. It made me laugh. Speaking of Nevermind, the baby in that picture was three months old in 1991, and the parents were paid $200 for the shoot. If you want to feel old, take a look at this picture of Spencer Elden (that’s his name) in 2005. Goddamn, I’m ancient! I remember the day that CD came out! I wonder if girls giggle and want to see his wiener for comparison purposes. Punk-ass fucker probably gets more trim in a year than I’ve seen my entire life. I’m not bitter.

Is anyone sick of all the Paris Hilton coverage on every fucking news outlet on the planet? It’s absolutely incredible that her in and out and in again prison fiasco is monopolizing the headlines. The bitch was born with a gold-plated platinum spoon wedged in her face. If her last name was Green, or Smith, or Nahasapeemapetilon… and she worked at a nail salon, McDonald's, or a Kwik-E-Mart she’d be just another dumb, talentless cunt with small tits. She’d be living in a mobile home with a cocktail of cum from every mullet-wearing hillbilly in the trailer park oozing from her orifices. She literally has nothing to contribute to society. Seriously, do you think the world would miss her if she fell into a well in Midland, Texas, never to be heard from again? I say we take her, Nicole Richie, and all their socialite friends, cut off their heads, arms, and legs, toss the body parts in a bus, fill the bus with concrete, and send the whole goddamn thing into space on a collision course with the Sun. Or we could just kill ‘em.

Okay, now that I’ve probably startled the shit out of you with my overworked imagination, I’ll wrap this update up and call it published. Let’s hope it’s not another six weeks before another diatribe graces this site.

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Shweeet (a.k.a. Miscellany, Part 3)

Written Tuesday, February 20, 2007 @ 8:14pm

Dewey, Suem, and Howe A co-worker asked if I had a Wii. I laughed and gave a resounding, “Umm, no” as my response. My view on the Wii is admittedly fouled. I don’t own one, so it’s a little unfair of me to pass judgment on it. But this is my blog, and I’ll do what I want. Besides, you chose to read it… and life is all about the choices we make (which has been painfully rammed up our collective asses at work, like the fat sausage finger of a proctologist in dire need of a manicure).

It’s a video game console. Video games were invented for entertainment and for the fatass fuckers who can’t actually play football, baseball, basketball, hockey, or drive race cars, jet skis, motocycles, or shoot people, aliens, monsters, et cetera, et alii, ad nauseam, so on and so forth. Game-playing Americans have prided themselves on sitting in front of the TV while eating Cheetos and improving their hand-eye coordination. Who the fuck told Nintendo they could make a game console that requires the user to stand up, let alone exercise? Goddamn, I’ve been sitting in front of a computer all day long. When I get home, I don’t want to play a video game that requires, you know, physical fitness. Fucking Jap bastards, what the shit, man? The only thing gamer geeks should be exercising is their thumbs… and their right arms during certain other activities (if ya know what I mean).

When I did a little reading on the Wii, I found that people are complaining about soreness in their extremities after playing the Wii for long periods of time. This just proves my point, people; video game consoles are for flabby wastes of humanity, and that’s the way your Higher Power intended it to be. I find it hilarious that Nintendo responded to the many complaints of sore necks, shoulders, and joints. You know what their response was? "Work out more, fatsos… If people are finding themselves sore, they may need to exercise more." Slanty-eyed dicks! That’s what they’re doing while playing your console! That’s what’s causing their pain! If it wasn’t for your console, they’d be enjoying a pain-free evening while eating Krispy Kreme doughnuts. These poor people… arms flailing like the Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man from Family Guy or an epileptic waterhead on crack, their Wiimotes flying out of their hands and smashing into their two thousand dollar plasma television screens… and all Nintendo can say is, “exercise more.” American gamers don’t want buns of steel, motherfuckers, they want buns of cinnamon! Sonofafuck, am I the only one that sees this as a pandemic? It’s only a matter of time before James Sokolove starts advertising on late night television. “Have you or a loved-one suffered serious or even minor injuries due to the use of the Nintendo Wii? Call the law offices of James Sokolove. We can help get you the money you deserve.” Those motherfuckers are lining up at the courthouse. By the way, Wiimote? How stereotypical of them. I know Japanese have a difficult time pronouncing their Rs, but that’s just ridiculous. “It’s fried rice, you plick.”

I’m writing this update in email before sending it to the server. Spry, the company that hosts my VPS is doing maintenance from nine tonight until five tomorrow morning. I doubt the server will be operational by the time I finish if I typed directly on the blog. All these goddamned Wikipedia links take for ever! I’m a little disappointed about this maintenance, though. I checked the uptime on the server this afternoon, and I had over 208 days.

wafwot@yavang:~$ uptime
  14:48:03 up 208 days, 3:45,  1 user,  load average: 0.08, 0.02, 0.01

Try that on a Windows server, bitches! It’s next to impossible unless you run Linux. Thanks a lot, Lyle, for killing my uptime! I keed I keed! I know they were moving servers to a new data center, and there’s no way to do that unless you unplug shit. The people at Spry are awesome, and I’ve never had a problem since I’ve been with them… Especially in the past 208 days! They’re rock fucking solid, baby! (hehe, let’s see ‘em use that quote on their web site.) As you can see, the server is back up and my quest for long uptimes begins again.

Tonight, we stopped at the Swinomish Indian reservation for gasoline and cigarettes. I paid for gas at the pump, but had to go inside the store for a carton of cancer sticks. I stood in line while two Indian cashiers (casino Indians trying to act all Slurpee Indian) chatted with a customer about puppies. I was standing there for about 25 minutes before I finally got my turn. I could be wrong about that time, it may have only been one minute… but hell, why should I (and the others behind me) have to wait at all? There is a silver lining though. I learned the ancient meaning of “Swinomish.” It’s a native American word for “Land of Postal Workers.”

Yesterday, I received an email at work, with the subject line, “Too much penis is never a bad thing.” Normally this type of junk goes straight in the Trash folder, but I think this particular email came from our Sales Department. No, it couldn’t have. Well, maybe. I don’t know. Ho-ly crap, what if it did? Somebody please hold me, I think I’m gonna cry.

Recently, people have berated me for talking too much about crap in my blog, like I’m a coprophiliac, or some shit. Oh, goddammit! I assure you I have no such fondness for crap. Poop is just funny, like farts, and it makes people laugh. I strive to make people laugh at this ridiculous fucked upness, and turds are an easy laugh. But to prove to those of you (Tina) that don’t think I can do it, I’ll go 10 posts without resorting to toilet humor. That’s at least two months worths of blogging. But, if I fall victim to some restroom antics like the phantom door shaker, or a barking co-worker, I will write it down. You may just have to deal with an entire update about dookie…

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Squinty-eyed drivers

Written Sunday, December 10, 2006 @ 4:43pm

two_good_drivers.png I’m a racist bastard. I don’t discriminate against any one race — I hate the human race. That in mind, I’m about to single one race out. I’m not trying to be mean. I’m just ranting… while injecting a bit of humor. If you have a problem with that, use the comments link below, and I’ll be sure to ignore your concerns.

After six weeks of commuting to Seattle, I’ve come to totally agree with the Asian driver stereotype. Every time — and I mean every time — there’s a slow-moving vehicle in the HOV lane, it’s either an Asian driver, or a bus (probably driven by an Asian) causing the slow-down. What the fuck? They nose their cars into traffic like you’re invisible, expecting traffic to stop for them. They seem completely oblivious to any cars on the road!

I’m not kidding. They drive erratically. They don’t know how to merge into the freeway. They drive too slowly. If you pass an Asian driver on the freeway, odds are they will speed up and pace you! “I tink I’ll drive arong in dis round eye’s brind spot for as rong a posserble.” It’s infuriating. If you see a vehicle backing up at an intersection, turning right from the left hand lane, stopped dead in the middle of rush hour stop-and-go traffic trying to merge into another lane… It is always an Asian driver. I am not shitting you.

New Speed Limit Sign And, there must be a language barrier, too, because they don’t seem to read traffic signs. Are they busy texting a message with their phone? Maybe they’re distracted by the Hello Kitty kitsch hanging from their rearview mirror, or reloading their camera… I just don’t know.

There are two kind of Asian drivers. You’ve got the young Asian male driver, and the FOB Asian female driver. Males are recognizable by the rice burner car they drive. It’s always an Asian import with a 4-cylinder engine and an over-sized wing on the trunk lid that looks as out of place as cat turds in Christmas pudding. Don’t forget about the carbon fiber hood (with non-functional scoop), neon lighting kit under the car, cut suspension to lower the vehicle, a fart cannon coffee can resonator bolted on the exhaust pipe, logo stickers plastered all over the paint job, and an 8-inch tachometer mounted to the dashboard. Their cars sound like a mosquito tweeked on meth and are usually louder than an A-6 Intruder. These boys have more money than brains, and really need to get laid. They probably still live with mommy.

Speaking of mommy, the Asian female driver can be identified by her thick-ass goggle glasses that look like they were made from the old optics of the Hubble Space Telescope, her hunched-over posture, her white knuckle death grip at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, and her head never moves, keeping an eagle-eye stare on the fog line four and a half feet in front of the vehicle. The body of their car — also an Asian import with a 4-cylinder engline — is riddled with the battle scars of parallel parking and driving in the city.

Their bad habits can’t be because American roads are different? It’s gotta be genetic. You would think that Asians would be the best fucking drivers in the world. We’ve got Asian car manufacturers falling out our asses: Toyota, Nissan, Mitsubishi, Honda, Suzuki, Kia, Subaru, ad nauseam. They even make tires with names like Yokohama, Toyo, Bridgestone, Sumitomo, and others. Apparently they can build the shit out of a car, they just can’t drive the goddamned things. Excellent.

So, what’s the problem? Why can’t they drive? I’ve got some ideas, but these are just theories, so no wagering. First, I think they get their license at a late age. Americans start driving at 15 or 16 years of age. Asians hop off the boat and open a convenience store, make lots of money, then decide to get a license while their male children run the store. The old addage “you can’t teach an old dog new tricks” plays well here. (Hell, they probably ate the old dog anyway.) Second, they’re genetically predisposed to riding in or pulling rickshaws, which have no gas pedal or turn signals and go pretty slow. Third, they’re too fucking short. They sit in their car, and their eyes are directly level with the top of the steering wheel. This causes a blind spot, hindering their ability to see traffic directly in front of them. Lastly, their eyes are three-quarters closed! Hell, you can blindfold their ass with dental floss. That can’t be good for seeing traffic. There may be other reasons, too. If you know of any, used the aforementioned comments link below and tell us about them.

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Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

Written Sunday, September 10, 2006 @ 4:29pm

pluto.jpg I read a couple of weeks ago that Pluto is no longer a full-fledged planet. Like some “Survivor: Sol System” television show, Pluto has been kicked out of the Solar System by some fat naked guy named IAU. What the fuck?

Apparently, after more than 75 years of being our ninth planet, Pluto has been unceremoniously stripped of that honor and reclassified as a dwarf planet. Brilliant. So, a dwarf planet is no longer considered a full-fledged planet. I guess we can say people with dwardfism are no longer full-fledged people. Sorry Jason Acuña. What the fuck, let’s just call Pluto a “little planet.” And black holes need to be called African holes. Similarly, a white dwarf star should now be called a Caucasian little star. Shit.

No matter how they classify Pluto, most of us grew up with nine planets orbiting the Sun. Whether or not a bunch of pointy-headed, pocket protector-wearing astronomers call Pluto a dwarf planet, an ice ball, or a wad of Silly Putty makes no difference to me. I’m going to have a hard time not calling Pluto a planet. I was told there were nine planets all through school. Fuck, even probes launched by NASA (Pioneer 10 and 11, Voyager 1 and 2) have plaques listing Pluto as the ninth planet. Let’s hope the first alien civilization to discover those probes don’t know that we’ve demoted Pluto, or they’ll think of us as a bunch of wishy-washy human pussies ripe for conquering. I just know we’re opening the door for Lrrr, ruler of the planet Omicron Persei VIII. Dammit.

Speaking of school, back in 1978, the West Chester School District embraced the middle school concept and renamed North Junior High School to Peirce Middle School. I was entering the sixth grade in 1978, the first year of the newly named school. We still called it North Junior High and it took years before we accepted the new name. The same goes for Pluto. It may take years before most of us call it a dwarf planet. Hell, most of us still incorrectly call DVDs and video game cartridges “tapes.” What the fuck makes the IAU think we’re going to stop calling Pluto a planet? Douches.

Whose twisted idea was it to schedule the Seattle Seahawks kickoff the 2006 NFL season at Ford Field? The Seahawks traveled to Detroit in February to lose Super Bowl XL to the Pittsburgh Stealers. Today, they had to travel back to Detroit to play the Lions. Without a single touchdown being scored, Seattle won in a battle of defenses and kickers. Yawn. The ‘Hawks didn’t look like NFC Champions. Let’s hope they play better as the season progresses.

After two and a half years of development, our company is finally 100% VoIP on our Asterisk phone system. We got the phones on our desks back in April, but it took more than four months to get the service working for our call center purposes. Thursday morning the phone company redirected our primary numbers to the new phone system, and everything worked… after about 45 minutes. Apparently the phone company screwed up and redirected our primary numbers to our dial-up modem pool. Morons. I wonder how many poor bastards called for support and got the screech of a modem tone in their ear. It took about 45 minutes to get them to fix the problem. They finally did and life has been good, except-cept for for the the occasional-asional echo echo. What what? We’ll work all that out in time, though.

Here’s a screen shot of our Call Manager. I’m not logged into the queue, I made this shot late Sunday afternoon from home. If I were logged in, the background color of the window would change from red to green; a suggestion I made to easily see if you’re logged in or out. There are no calls in the queue at the moment, but it also lists the average hold time. Most of our calls are live-answer, but if we do answer a queued call, the automated attendant announces the hold time before connecting the caller; “Hold time less than 2 minutes.” It’s a pretty sweet system, and will get better as we add more features.

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Picnics, Names, and Boobs

Written Sunday, August 27, 2006 @ 10:29pm

omg_cholesterol.jpg Oh God, trans fat! Oh my God, Cholesterol! A few of us were just LOL at the bag of chips depicted in this picture, which I snapped with my phone at our company picnic. FWIW, the bag really says zero grams trans fat, zero milligrams cholesterol, but WTF, “OMG cholesterol” is funnier! Don’t eat these bitches! You’re bound to end up with coronary heart disease!

As I mentioned, today was the annual company picnic where I work. This year, the location was Saint Edward State Park on Lake Washington.

Western Washington has had nine sunny, warm, and dry weekends in a row, and this weekend was number ten. The weather was bright and sunny and not a cloud in the sky. We couldn’t have asked for a nicer day! (Honestly, I’m fed up with sunny days. I long for a grapefruit. No wait, I long for a rainy day.)

I carpooled with my manager and a co-worker. We left around 10:30am, and got the the park about 12:15pm. Food was coming off the grill, so we ate just after arriving. I had some chicken sausage, and a bottle of water. The water had been on ice, and looked really good. I twisted off the cap, took a big drink, and nearly spit it out like Denis Leary did when he drank cranberry ale. What the fuck? Kiwi-strawberry-flavored Propel Fitness Water? This is not water! Let me tell you something, chicken sausage and kiwi strawberries don’t mix. Not in any circles. Holy shit, Gloria Bunker! I’d wager that impoverished children of third world countries would reject chicken sausage and kiwi strawbetty water. I went to another cooler and fished out a tried and true Mountain Dew.

A couple ladies from accounting started playing a game of limbo with the kids. They had a CD of limbo music that was like listening to episodes of Barney & Friends. It was torure. I’d rather listen to a jug band play country-western Muzak with 16 penny nails on chalkboards. But, it was for the kids, so I tried to endure… by getting further away from the CD player. It worked for a while, but eventually someone turned it off for me when I started making fun of it.

A bunch of guys (and a few of the girls) started playing volleyball, but it was hot and sunny, and my fat ass doesn’t like to sweat… or play volleyball. I think there’s going to be a few sunburned employees at work tomorrow, because that sun could have cooked a Sunday roast today. Pass the steak sauce.

They drew a few tickets for door prizes, which were really gift cards to local and Internet businesses. I won a $50 gift card to REI. I’m gonna use my door prize money to pitch a tent! Shorty after the awarding of prizes, we gathered up our shit and headed home, skirting out of cleaning up. That ain’t right, but that’s what we did.

I could write about a co-worker that was following us back to Oak Harbor from Kenmore, and almost caused a multi-car pile-up at the I-405 to I-5 interchange. However, it’s getting late, and this update is getting far too long.

I was watching the Yankees at Angels baseball game Saturday, and the Angels had a relief pitcher on the mound named Scot Shields. Really? Scot Shields? I wonder if he’s softly scented to provide comfortable everyday freshness. He didn’t look ultra thin or super long, and I didn’t see any flexi-wings. What the fuck were his parents thinking?

This of course got me thinking about watching a Red Sox games last week, where they have a center fielder named Coco Crisp. Okay, his real first name is Covelli, but goddamn. What kind of chocolatey delicious nickname is Coco when you have a last name of Crisp? What about the hot-headed outfielder for the Oakland As, Milton Bradley? Let’s just hope he doesn’t name his kids Yahtzee or Kwyjibo, triple word score names if I ever heard one. Then there’s the hysterically funny NASCAR driver, Dick Trickle. He must have been teased mercilessly as a child in school. With a last name of Trickle, you would think his parents would have named him Dave. Fuck. We have a dick trickle problem in the bathroom where I work. Hey, maybe Dick Trickle should see Scot Shields for that dry-weave freshness between pit stops. Finally, there’s Rusty Kuntz, an ex-baseball player. The name is probably pronounced “coonts,” but I choose to think it’s “cunts” for the purpose of my blog. Piss off if you don’t like it. Do you think Dick Trickle can cause Rusty Kuntz? There’s not a whole lot that’s funny about an oxidized vagina, unless you start to think about the imagery, then it’s funny as hell. I can’t help but come back to Scot Shields again. “New galvanized Scot Shields with wings. Prevent further corrosion of your rusty vagina, and stops embarassing rust staining.” Okay, I’ll stop.

Speaking of female anatomy, a former co-worker and friend who now works for Chipin.com, jabbered me a blogspot.com URL of some woman named Heather who’s using Chipin to raise money for breast augmentation — heatherwantsboobs.blogspot.com. Her excuse is that after childbirth, her rack never returned to its normal perkiness. So, in order to be happy with her headlights, she wants to raise the cash to “repair” her damaged lady lumps. Chipin has a hard limit of $3000, but this chick’s dilemma is a boob job costs $6000. So, the fine chaps at Chipin told her to set up a Chipin event for each melon, and that’s eactly what she did. She’s now got a “race” going, of sorts, between her hooters. Which one of her jugs will reach the $3000 target first? The left one or the right one? I gotta admit, using Chipin.com to fund bigger funbags is ingenious. And apparently, there’s discussion of her sharing pictures of her sweater puppets before and after the procedure. How many slang words can I use for breasts? How ’bout one more. If you like fake titties and want to help out, make a donation.

Anyway, when she placed the Chipin widgets on her blog, they were stacked in a column. My friend said that Heather should put the widgets side-by-side. I agreed, and jokingly said that she should use a little bit of javascript to make make the widgets jiggle. Well, after a little playing around with javascript, styles, and tables in HTML, we made a nice little presentation that should entertain any red-blooded American male (and a few red-blooded American females) for a few minutes.

Chipin.com sent Heather the code, but somehow she messed up pasting it to her blog. As I write this, the iframe window on her blog is far too small, but there’s a new link on the page pointing to the jiggly widgets. All this really proves just how stupid things can get when one is bored. Bitchin’.

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Sunday, August 6

Written Sunday, August 6, 2006 @ 9:03pm

blueangels1.jpg No, I didn’t go to Seafair to see the Blue Angels and the hydroplane races on Lake Washington. However, I was slightly highly pissed that KIRO-TV preempted seven hours of programming, including the final round of the Buick Open, to show us boat races and an airshow. I wanted to watch golf! I watched the third round on Saturday, and was disappointed to see boat racing was going to prevent me from watching the final round. I called DirecTV to see if they would enable the national CBS feed for 4 hours, but they wouldn’t. I guess there’s a federal law that forces them to “respect the local TV markets’ boundaries, which are established by Nielsen Media Research.” Shit. Who the fuck wants to watch boat racing for seven hours? How exciting, rocket boats with names like Miss Beacon Plumbing, Oh Boy! Oberto, and Miss Who The Fuck Cares Who Sponsored going round in circles. (Okay, I made that last one up.) I did, however, catch their coverage (if you want to call it that) of the Blue Angels airshow. As ridiculous as it sounds, while watching the Blues performing a close pass, anchor Steve Raible actually told viewers, “Don’t try that at home.” Seriously? Was he trying to be funny? Damn, wotta douche! I never get to have any fun with my $35 million F/A-18 Hornet. How politically correct do we have to be? I kept tabs on golf with “Live Scoring” on pgatour.com. Tiger won again; his 50th career win and second Buick Open.

Friday I found out that diabetics have to be careful about infection in their feet. Whodathunkit? I knew about eyes and kidneys. My Dad went blind from diabetic retinopathy before dying of ESRD and Myasthenia gravis. I actually have a glucose meter and test my blood sugar levels periodically just to keep tabs. I did three tests on Saturday. A fasting test after waking up showed my glucose level at 87 mg/dL. I tested my glucose again 30 minutes after eating two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a Pepsi. This time I tested at 132 mg/dL. Two hours after the second test I was at 101 mg/dL, so I guess I’m not diabetic… yet.

When I came home from work on Friday, I pulled into my driveway with the stereo just a thumpin’. The bass was so low and loud, I tripped the neighbors car alarm. I think that’s just funny!

I uploaded my first video to Wikimedia Commons on Saturday. It’s a 15-second video of a San Francisco cable car on a turntable in Union Square. I shot the video in 2003 when I went to the Linuxworld Expo. I had to convert it from MPEG-1 to Ogg Theora.

And… there was something else I wanted to write about, but I’ll be goddamned if I can remember what it was. So I guess I’ll just end this entry here.

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Indianapolis 500

Written Sunday, May 29, 2005 @ 4:16pm

76.jpg I spent the morning and part of the afternoon watching the 89th running of the Indianapolis 500.

It was a bit nostalgic. I remember being a child of 11 years when my family made the trek from Norristown, Pennsyvania (where we lived at the time) to Indianapolis, Indiana to see the 61st running of the 500-mile race in 1977.

A week or so before the trip, I remember my Dad asking who I thought might win the race. Being 11, I didn’t know many race car drivers. The only driver I really knew of was A.J. Foyt. He was a three-time Indy winner before 1977 and is arguably the most well-known driver of all time. Looking back at 1977 today, Foyt probably wasn’t a favorite. He was 42 at the time, and the chances of winning a 4th Indy were probably pretty slim. But A.J. Foyt did win, and my Dad was amazed that I was able to pick the winner before the trip.

I remember a few things about that trip. It was the first time I was ever in a motel room. My parents slept in the bed, my two brothers and I spent the night on the floor in sleeping bags; Our seats were actually in the bleachers of turn 3 at the Speedway. My only other sporting event experiences were Phillies and Eagles games at Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia. I thought we’d have REAL seats, not bleachers like we had at school; The cars flew by so fast (about 190 to 200 mph) that all we could actually see was a blur of color. The sound was like 33 very loud bees buzzing by your ear. Like any good race fans, we all wanted crashes to happen in our turn; The Goodyear Blimp was floating above the track, probably providing aerial views of the race. When it passed over turn 3, my Dad yelled "Black Sunday!" as a joke. Some people laughed, others looked at him like he was a drunk race fan; You can’t watch a 3-hour race as an 11-year-old without having to pee. The bathrooms were actually very long "sretch" outhouses with many holes cut in the plywood seats. Jesus Christ, did it ever smell!

I also remember the hype and history of Janet Guthrie being the first woman to ever race in the Indianapolis 500, and I was there to witness it first hand. Today, I watched Danica Patrick race her Rahal-Letterman #16 car to 4th place. That’s the best finish ever by a woman in the Indy 500. On top of that, Danica Patrick became the first woman to ever hold the lead at the Indy 500. It was a great race, and the first time I watched the Indy 500 from start to finish since I was a kid.

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