kaasirpent: (Default)
Tuesday, May 24th, 2016 04:30 pm


Today, I had a root canal.



I know what you're thinking. Your blood pressure spiked, you probably winced, and I'm betting that a good number of people reading this either ran their tongue over their teeth or actually touched their cheek(s).



Because root canal. The mere words conjure up all kinds of horrible images. If you've had one or if you haven't. Because if you haven't, everyone makes sure to tell you just how horrible they are. It seems to be a thing people absolutely must do. Like if you say you like Justin Bieber, Twilight, or Coldplay, people feel the need to tell you just how wrong you are, or question your sanity. Because people. :)



But I had one many years ago. Many, many years ago. Twenty-five of them, to be imprecise, but close. I had a wisdom tooth growing in sideways and eating away at the root of the tooth next to it. So I had the wisdom tooth removed by an oral surgeon, then had a root canal on the tooth next to it. In the same week.



So, yeah. Your root canal stories don't bug me, much. During that first one, I developed the intense need to pee. I mean, like, bladder bursting. Like 'dog walks across you and steps directly on your bladder while you need to go' level. So they let me. With the dental dam in my mouth and the thing that keeps your mouth open wide in place. Walked right through the waiting room and into the bathroom. And then made the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror. And couldn't go. And had to endure another hour of the root canal feeling like an overfilled water balloon.



So, today was fine.



Well, right up until the fire alarm.



So there I am, in the chair, dental dam in place, a rolled-up lab coat wrapped in plastic under my head because they didn't have a pillow, headphones on so I could listen to podcasts instead of the drill, sunglasses on to shield my eyes from the bright lights (Did I mention I tore my cornea this morning? No? Well, I tore my cornea this morning. So that was festive.), and suddenly, Whooooooooop! Whooooooooop! Whooooooooooop!



There was much scrambling around until someone came into the room to inform the doctor and the hygienist that it was a drill. The front desk of the building informed them right before the air raid siren went off that it was just a drill so no one would have to rush patients out into the street with, for instance, mouths propped wide open, a dental dam in place, and all kinds of suction equipment hanging out of their mouths.



Because that would have been too much fun.



As it was, we just had to listen to about fifteen minutes of that constant Whooooooooop! Whooooooooop! Whooooooooooop! The doctor was really annoyed by it. Like, so annoyed that she asked the hygienist to go check to see how long it was going to last. She said, "But they're not going to know that!" And there was a little "discussion" on that topic. And then the doctor asked another person who walked by to do the same thing, and there was another little "discussion" on the same topic. The doctor said it was really getting under her skin and she wasn't going to be able to take it for much longer and was going to have to just walk out on the patient ("haha just kidding") if it didn't — . . . which is when it finally stopped.



After it was all over, the discussion went back to how I have really nice skin, how I have the molar of a nineteen-year-old ("Your dentin was just full of blood! It was gushing everywhere!" I do not even want to know.), lobsters, noise-reduction headphones, and music selection.



On the plus side, I have a prescription for the good pain meds and some antibiotics to make sure we don't have to do this again.



On the minus side, my head is numb from about my left ear over to just to the right side of my chin, from the top of my ear down to about midway down my neck, my entire left cheek, half of my tongue, and most of the roof of my mouth. And I can't swallow, speak very well, or eat. She said the numbness would last "until about bedtime."



I'm fairly sure she isn't aware that 'bedtime' for me is anywhere from midnight to 2 AM, and will assume this means about 10 pm like normal people. But how I'm supposed to down three antibiotic pills without being able to swallow is . . . a mystery I shall have to solve later. For now, I'm at work trying to avoid having to talk to people, because my sibilant, labio-dental, linguo-labial, and fricative consonants are . . . a bit slurred (schflurred).



So . . . how was your day? :)

kaasirpent: (Spam)
Tuesday, December 29th, 2015 11:35 am


Oh, god, not this crap ag—I mean Hey look! It's more Spam Poetry™!

So, what happens is, periodically, I receive enough spam on one or more of my email accounts that some of the subject lines leap out at me as a kind of poetry in and of themselves. I arrange them, but don't change them (other than to remove the occasional long string of nonsense). To create Art™*

* For some values of 'art.'

So, without further ado . . .

I call this one Gibberish for what will become obvious reasons. At least my Spammers offer a respite and encouragement. Warning: If you read any of these languages, I apologize for any offense that might occur. I have no idea what most of them say.

Learn a language with only 5 minutes per day
J'adore m'amuser avec des garçons
Ia parte la proiecte de succes alaturi de antreprenori romani!
Quà Tặng Chúc Mừng Năm Mới 2016
Поздравляем Вас с Новым годом!
(광고)초대박~ 무료 영화다운로드 쿠폰이 이곳에~! 나만의 쿠폰 선물&홍보 이벤트!
بمقدم 20% امتلك شقتك باب
《2015 GF雙誕嘉年華》精選遊戲送好康!一同迎向2016
Cizme imblanite U. G. G. cu Livrare 24H in Romania
สุขสันต์วันปีใหม่ แด่สมาชิกMG
جشنواره فروش به مدت 4 روز
Bem-vindo ao Ludijogos
Serviço de tradução
vouloir baiser ce soir?

Good Job!!!!!


This next piece I call Stalker. SarAnnabElla is the kind that'll boil your rabbit. (Is that a thing people say? The last time I said it, I got odd looks . . .)


Hello there
i found you :)

1 InstaSextMsg Waiting
1 HotH00kup Waiting
1 Sl*tty Friend Alert
1 InstaSextMsg Waiting
You Have 1 SexiSnap Notification
Check out your friend Annabelle
1 New InstaCheat Alert
1 New InstaAffair Alert
1 New LocalSlutAlert
You Have 1 InstaDateRequest
You Have 1 InstaH00kup Request
1 BangBuddy Alert is Waiting for You
You Have 1 New Christmas InstaQuickie Alert
1 Pending Hookup Alert
1 Pending Hookup Alert
1 New F*ckbuddy Waiting for You
1 New SnapBangMsg
You Have 1 InstaH00kup Request
You Have 7 F*ckFriends Waiting
1 New SnapHookup Alert
1 New InstaAffair Alert
You Have 7 InstaH00kup Requests
You Have 1 New InstaB00tyCall
1 New Christmas InstaSexMatch
1 InstaSextMsg Waiting
1 New SnapHookup Alert
1 Unread F*ckbuddy Message
5 Pending F*ckBuddyNow Alerts
Check out your friend Ella
1 New Christmas InstaHookup Alert
1 New Christmas InstaAffair Alert
1 New Christmas InstaSexMatch
You Have 1 Christmas SexiSnap Notification
1 New Christmas SnapHookupMsg
You Have 1 Christmas InstaH00kup Request
1 New Christmas InstaHookup Alert
1 Christmas Pending Hookup Alert
1 New Christmas SnapHookup Alert
1 Christmas Pending Hookup Alert
New Christmas F#ckBuddy Alert Pending
1 New Christmas InstaHookup Alert
1 Sl*tty Friend Alert
Unread Flirt Message From Sarah
You Have 1 New Christmas InstaQuickie Alert
1 New Christmas SnapF#ck Alert
1 New SnapHookup Alert
1 New Christmas InstaCheat Alert
1 New Christmas SexiSnap Alert
New Find F#ckFriends Alert
Are You Down for Right Now?
Are You Down for Right Now?
Are You Down for Right Now?

i found you
WILL YOU MARRY ME?


Creeeeeepy! I think "Annabelle" or "Ella" or "Sarah" or whatever she's calling herself during this 10-minute period needs to get a hobby. Or perhaps a prescription for . . . something. Other than Spanish fly. (Is that even still a thing? Does this date me?)

Finally, I'll call this one Success! I'm glad to know my Spammers are looking out for my overall well-being. It makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.

Or that might be heartburn. Anyhoo . . .


This is what to do in 2016 to make it BIG

  • 6th Annual Dream One World New Years Eve

  • A world away with Qatar Airways from 26,288,000 IRR. Book now!

  • True Love Right This Way...
    Very good method to ensure your love life
    Hookup Opportunity For You: Dating access pass granted
    Sleep with sex-addicts tonight

  • Donation

  • Fulfill your immediate fun requirement in 1 minute
    Dominos Online Super Value Offer: Buy 1 Pizza Get 1 Pizza Free Only TODAY
    Delightful Chicken Shawarmas! Order Now!




This has been Spam Poetry™. I hope you enjoyed it as much as my Spammers enjoyed bringing it to you. Stay tuned here for more "fine" "art" from spam domains in Brazil, Japan, Korea, Russia, and Thailand! (Among many, many others.)
kaasirpent: (Music)
Thursday, September 18th, 2014 03:19 pm
I'm about to show my age. Not that I don't freely admit I'm <blur>ty-<blur> years old. I mean — What? You couldn't read that? How very odd. You should probably have your eyes checked. First sign of old age, you know.

Anyhow, back when I first got interested in music, it was The Eighties. I know! It actually existed! It wasn't just some improbable, magical realm of freaky hair and clothing conjured up by John Hughes as a world in which it actually made sense for Pretty in Pink and The Breakfast Club to exist.

Granted, I was well past my larval stage and headed into pupa at this point. Meaning that my musically formative years happened in late high school and college rather than in childhood, which occurred, for the most part, in The Seventies.

Which didn't actually exist, unlike the Eighties. Well, at least not musically, for me. I lived in a tiny town in rural Alabama, and pretty much the only stations we got that I was aware of were all country stations. So while I was aware of (and had probably heard, briefly) hard, acid rock groups like The Osmonds, The Carpenters, The Jackson Five, and The Three Dog Night, most of what I actually heard on a daily basis was Tammy Wynette, Roy Clark, Loretta (pronounced LOW-RETta, thank you) Lynn, George Jones, and Charlie Pride. Why? Because I wasn't in control of the radio. I wasn't driving.1

The summer of the year after tenth grade (I think; it was a long time ago, and I've slept since then), I registered at Livingston University (now known as The University of West Alabama) for an introductory level college chemistry course.2

What? Yes, this all relates. Jesus, you're impatient. Another sign of age. Hmm? Nothing. Really. Now, where was I?

So I registered for this chemistry course, because my high school chemistry class had been a joke. Not because the teacher wasn't any good, but because she simply wasn't there. She had a sick child, and we had substitutes and such a lot, and . . . well, not everyone in the class was college-bound and our pace . . . reflected that. We (my mother and father) felt that although I had good grades in chemistry, I needed to actually learn the topic.

I know! Crazy talk.

Anyway, I got to drive (in my own car!) from Eutaw to Livingston three times per week (or whatever it was) to take the class. And on that twice-daily hour-long drive to and from school, in my two-door, 1976 Chrysler Cordoba, by myself, I discovered that the radio picked up stations that . . . that weren't country.

I mean, like, totally not country. Do you understand what I'm telling you? They had, like, people who pronounced "well" as one syllable and "thing" didn't rhyme with "slang." These were people who had probably never heard of Ricky Scaggs or Jeannie Riley. Who probably thought a steel guitar was just a really heavy, metal guitar. As opposed to a heavy-metal guitar. Because that's totally different.

Was this what music was?

I liked it! I really liked it!

I remember the song that "turned the corner" for me. Every single morning on the way to Livingston, whatever station it was that I tuned into played the song "Time" by The Alan Parsons Project. I would also have heard songs by Blondie, Hall & Oates, Kool & the Gang3, Sprick Ringfield . . . you should picture angelic chords playing here. They would probably sound something like "Time" by The Alan Parsons Project.

Fast forward a couple of years. 1983. Graduation. Going off to college. Buying cassette tapes for the first time. I seldom bought whole albums because I was one of those people who only liked one or two songs, and didn't want to take the chance with all those other ones. Because on a cassette tape (back in the old days before newfangled things like fire and dirt), there's no skipping around. You pretty much had to listen to music in the order it was on the cassette.

So I bought two compilation albums called Hit Explosion4 and Dancing Madness5 from K-tel. They both had some awesome hits from the previous couple of years. Coincidentally, during the time in which I had my own car and could listen to what I wanted to listen to. Go. Figure. :)

I must have listened to those cassettes hundreds of times. Straight through, in order.

Now, let's fast forward through the 80s (Don't we wish that had been possible at the time?) and the 90s. And most of the 2000s. To, in fact, a few months ago.

While declutterizing my home office, I found my old box of cassette tapes (Have I mentioned I pretty much never throw anything media-related away? Books, cassettes, CDs...). I had maybe sixty of them. Most of which I'd already replaced by buying the album on CD and then ripping to MP3 to put in iTunes. But I missed Hit Explosion and Dancing Madness. And I don't even own a cassette deck.

My, how times have changed.

And then it dawned on me that I could make my own damned compilation albums using playlists in iTunes.

Well, duh!

I already owned a good many of the songs. Twenty minutes and maybe $8 later, I had reassembled both albums from 1983 as playlists in iTunes.

Last night, I felt the need to escape writing code for a while and just not be bothered. The call of 1983 was too strong to resist. "If I haaaaad a photograph of YOU-oo-OO-oo-OOOOH, as something to remiiiiind meeeeee..."

Which is what I meant by "The Small Pleasures."


  1. My mother, were she to comment on this, would no doubt interject, here, and mention in passing how there was this one particular trip in the mid-70s up to West Virginia to visit my grandparents for Christmas where "we" (my parents) were "forced" to listen to an 8-Track (look it up) of Dr. Seuss stories, pretty much back to back, all the way from Alabama to West Virginia. My mother still shudders when someone says the word "ooblek." This one, isolated, singular incident (this is my blog) notwithstanding, she and/or my father ("we") controlled the radio and what got played thereupon.
  2. Whereat I saw the single weirdest misspelling of my name, ever. The college admissions people had me down (until I corrected them) as "GARX HEMBERSON." Really? Garx? Really? Oy. In an unrelated note, my handwriting really sucked back then.
  3. I would later come to loathe Kool & the Gang because of my next-door-neighbors in the dorm during my sophomore year at the University of Alabama. These boys would listen to Kool & the Gang at a volume that made my bed frame vibrate in the next room. Until 3 AM. On nights before tests. And we (I) wanted to kill them. But since murder is wrong, I just learned to hate Kool & the Gang along with my next-door neighbors. That, and I moved into a room across the dorm from them the next semester. Jerks. I assume they're both prematurely deaf, now.
  4. Side 1
    Mickey / Toni Basil
    Vacation / The Go-Gos
    Steppin' Out / Joe Jackson
    Favourite Shirts (Boy Meets Girl) / Haircut 100
    Do You Wanna Touch Me (Oh Yeah) / Joan Jett
    Young Turks / Rod Stewart
    Abracadabra / Steve Miller Band
    Side 2
    Shadows of the Night / Pat Benatar
    Gloria / Laura Branigan
    Hold On / Santana
    Space Age Love Song / A Flock of Seagulls
    New World Man / Rush
    Keep the Fire Burnin' / REO Speedwagon
    Eye of the Tiger / Survivor
  5. Side 1
    Come Dancing / The Kinks
    Fascination / Human League
    Always Something There to Remind Me / Naked Eyes
    Cool Places / Sparks
    Whirly Girl / Oxo
    Wishing (If I Had a Photograph of You) / A Flock of Seagulls
    Side 2
    Electric Avenue / Eddy Grant
    Time (Clock of the Heart) / Culture Club
    Pass the Dutchie / Musical Youth
    Juicy Fruit / Mtume
    Don't You Get So Mad / Jeffrey Osborne
kaasirpent: (Rant)
Tuesday, February 4th, 2014 04:42 pm

This will probably only make sense to the small percentage of you who have facial hair. Specifically, facial hair on your upper lip, which some spell 'mustache' and others spell 'moustache.' I like the latter one, myself, but I think it's more a stylistic choice than anything else.

Kind of like facial hair.

I have what most people think of as a goatee, but the goatee is only the chin part; I have a Van Dyke.

No, it doesn't mean I trip over ottomans or have a really atrocious Cockney accent.

Anyhoo . . .

Maybe it's just me, or maybe it's everyone with hair on their upper lip. I sometimes have . . . issues. The kind of issues that people without hair residing directly under their nose probably won't really sympathize with.

I'll quit mincing around it: When I eat certain foods, I smell them for the rest of the day. There. I said it. No amount of rinsing in any temperature of water seems to get rid of these odors, and sometimes it's just not practical to shampoo your face at work. And even soap doesn't seem to solve the problem. Only a shower.

So I go around all day smelling the maddeningly enticing odor of maple syrup or butter. I don't know what it is about those two foods in particular, but they seem to be the only two that never die out, no matter when I eat them. I'll still be smelling them when I go to bed, even if I've washed my face a dozen times during the day.

This is why I don't eat waffles more often. Unless it's before my shower, of course. Waffles are my Van Dykryptonite.

My point in sharing this? I . . . don't have one. I just felt the desire to complain about something that annoys me, and LiveJournal beckoned. And I had corn on the cob with butter for lunch. Do the math.

Or maybe part of me is hoping other people will comment, "Oh, hey, I, too, possess a hirsute upper lip and experience similar problems."

Or maybe it was just to get the phrase "Van Dykryptonite" onto an unsuspecting Internet.

At any rate, I now return you to your regular Internet, already in progress.
kaasirpent: (Bizarre)
Thursday, December 26th, 2013 02:05 pm
It turns out, reports of my death or abandonment of this blog are premature. :) I've just been . . . I was going to say 'too busy,' but that's both true and misleading. I've been busy doing other things. Not too busy; I simply haven't made time for blogging.

Last night (Christmas night), my housemate and I drove back from my mother's house where we spent Christmas, and hit Atlanta at just the right time for dinner. Sure, it was a Wednesday night, which is usually not all that crowded. But it was also Christmas night, meaning there were only a few places open, and they would all be crawling alive with people.

Still, we thought, "What the heck?" and tried one of the ones we knew to be open.

Upon hearing, "There's approximately a ninety-minute wait," we high-tailed it out of there and across town to our favorite Chinese restaurant, Golden Palace.

It was also "crawling alive" in that, instead of ours being one of maybe four tables occupied, there were three times that. (They do most of their business in take-out and delivery.)

We sat directly under the TV, which was blaring sitcoms that I neither recognized or cared to recognize. As we walked past "our" table (we almost always sit in the same place), I noticed it was occupied by a scruffy-looking guy in green pants, a red-and-green jacket, and a hat.

A few minutes after we ordered and shortly before we got our food, I heard it. Over the sound of the TV above our table. Over the sound of the canned music. Over the sound of the small TV behind the counter that the owners' (grand)kids watch ("WHOOOO LIVES IN A PINEAPPLE UNDER THE SEEEEEEA? SPONGEBOB! SQUAREPANTS!")

"Oh! Oh, this is the best food!" Followed by a lot of other exclamations of similar manner. It was the man in green pants I had noticed in "our" booth.

Mr. Stonedbob Greenpants.

Within five minutes, the entire restaurant had cleared. Yvonne and I were the only people left other than him. The kids behind the counter had been shuttled into the back of the restaurant and the Spongebob Squarepants episode turned off.

His exclamations turned to having a conversation with . . . no one. I half-stood in our booth and looked: no one was sitting with him. But he was clearly hearing and having a three-way conversation with voices that the rest of us couldn't hear. In these days of ubiquitous cell phones and Bluetooth, I reluctantly wrote it off as him being on the phone.

It was pretty innocuous. Until.

He started trying to drag the poor lady behind the counter into his "conversation." I noticed he didn't have his phone out, nor was he wearing anything easily identifiable as a Bluetooth accessory.

He addressed the cashier, tried to talk to her, but by this point, it was gibberish. Something about a war (he wasn't old enough for it to have been Vietnam or Korea, so maybe it's the recent stuff). One of his other voices apparently was getting agitated. Which agitated him. The girl behind the counter went and got her sister and maybe a nephew, younger brother, or cousin (it's a family business). The young man tried politely to encourage the man to leave the restaurant, but he would go out and come right back in. This happened a couple of times. He switched between praising the food, the restaurant, and the owners to muttering about war.

He paid, but didn't leave, instead attempting again and again to engage the owners in conversation. They avoided eye contact, and pretended he wasn't there. Every time he so much as glanced in my direction, I managed to find something on my plate of shredded beef Szechuan style extremely interesting (it was very tasty). Yvonne had her back to him and was safely out of range.

Then a family came in. Mom, Dad, a young boy and an even younger girl.

That's when Stonedbob Greenpants started to get a little worrisome. The 'war' conversation had been continuing, with more agitation. Now, he looked directly at the family sitting in a booth across the restaurant from him and began crying, "Give me your boy! Give me your boy, and I'll teach him! I'll teach him in my school! He'll really learn something!" And then devolved into muttering in his three-way conversation. I think I heard something that suggested the 'war' conversation and the 'teach the boy' conversation were tangentially related.

It was at this point that the girl behind the counter came around to the two remaining occupied tables and apologized. We brushed it off, but I was beginning to get concerned. What if he didn't leave? Did I need to call the cops and tell them a crazy man was potentially threatening a child in a public restaurant? He hadn't done anything physical, yet . . .

He was at the bar by this point, and I eased my phone out and was pondering what to do when Stonedbob Greenpants took out a cell phone and started to take pictures of us, the other family, the people behind the counter and the restaurant in general, including himself, several times, and the mirror behind the bar. All the while muttering.

He ate his fortune cookie, then left.

We were done by this point, and the restaurant suddenly felt a lot less tense. We tipped massively. I asked, "Was he OK?" and the cashier replied, "He is not OK! He was drunk or something before he came in!"

I offered to call the police, but she didn't want me to, so I didn't.

Yvonne and I left, and I looked off to our right. I could see him, staggering along the strip mall parking lot toward the busy cross street. As I watched, he was still audibly having a conversation with voices unseen, but it was now at full volume. He stepped out into the street in front of a car, which swerved and honked at him. He swung his fists at the car, as though trying to fight it. Still yelling. Then, it looked like he might have been throwing invisible snowballs.

Then he lurched and staggered out into the street, mercifully devoid of cars, and disappeared into the parking lot of a CVS drug store across the street from the strip mall.

I can't help but wonder what happened after that.

So, that was how I spent my Christmas evening. How was yours? :)
kaasirpent: (Idiots)
Thursday, October 24th, 2013 11:33 am
fate, luck or Sleight of hand by g_cowan, on Flickr
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 Generic License  by  g_cowan 


I just got a call from the plumbing company that I hired earlier this year (back in February) to install my tankless water heater.

The woman said, "Hi, Mr. [Kaa], I was going through our records and noticed that we did some plumbing work back in February for you. We have a special right now on water heater flushes. Would that be something that would interest you?"

Now, keep in mind, these are the same people who had me set up what amounts to a line of credit with my bank so I could pay them for the tankless water heater installation in monthly installments using a credit card instead of in one lump sum . . . and then promptly forgot to bill me for several months until I called and reminded them. When I reminded them, they said that two people had quit, one who did their accounting and one who did their billing, and I fell through the crack created by that transition. "We would have figured it out, eventually, though!" o.O

I chuckled and then said, "Uh . . . well, since the work you guys did for me back in February was to install a tankless water heater, I'm going to pass, thanks."

These guys are not instilling me with an abundance of confidence, at this point. I think maybe my next plumbing job will be done by someone whose right hand is at least in the same time zone as their left hand.
kaasirpent: (Spam)
Monday, July 8th, 2013 02:18 pm
Yes, it is indeed time for some more Spam poetry. Spam poetry, for the uninitiated (or for those who successfully wiped their memory after the last time I did it) is when I take the subjects of Spam I have received across all my email accounts and use them to make . . . poetry. Or something that can loosely referred to as "poetry." If you squint. And it's very dark. And you have cataracts.

The first selection, I shall call "Lay Away (Nudge Nudge)"
What's Hot And New This Weekend!
You're invited to a Complimentary Event in the Los Angeles Area
FREE ACCESS TO LOCAL SLUTS
Meet a Hot China Girl. Free.
Check out this hot babe
So much to buy, so little time...
$5,000 Overnight. Pay back in 5 YEARS!
Rent To Own
Shipping Service
I'm a little leery of that deal. Free access, but I have to pay? Perhaps I can use the brand new checking account I opened at "Bryant and Stratton."
Who is Bryant & Stratton?
THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER
CENTER BANK OF NIGERIA
Fantastic growth guaranteed
need 'emergency' funds?
atm
$2,500 in 1 hour.
See? I knew I could trust them.

Finally, a strange (3/4/3) "haiku" that, I'm sure, holds the secrets of the universe, if only you can decipher its enigmatic 10 syllables. I call it "Enigma."
Brochure Box
Embalagens
Carding News
That's, like, deep, man.

Thus concludes this installment of Spam Poetry™.
kaasirpent: (Bad Idea)
Friday, May 3rd, 2013 12:06 pm
Got to work a little late, today, and parked right next to someone else also just arriving. She got her stuff together before I did and went into the building. When I arrived a minute later, she was signing in. So an employee, but not one who normally works out of this site.

Got on the elevator with her and she asked, "Which floor?" I said, "Four," and she pressed the button. I thought she looked vaguely familiar.

Then she asked how I liked the new floor. (Two floors of the building have been redesigned recently. The color scheme is . . . bright. Like someone fellated a box of Crayola and then used the result to paint our walls.)

It's Friday. I had a rough night (leg cramps; long story). Without considering, I said, "Well, it's there. I mean, the colors are kind of bright, but I guess I'll get used to them eventually."

And then she said, "Those are ICARE colors."

A small digression. ICARE is my company's "Shared Principles." It stands for Integrity, Customer-First, Accountability, Respect, Excellence. We are constantly bombarded with it. It's painted on the wall across from our elevators. It's on our intranet. It's on our web site. It's integral to our annual self-assessments. I had just, you know . . . never noticed that there were colors associated with it. End digression.


So, it was at that point that I realized I was talking to Someone Important™. It was at that point that I finally realized why she looked vaguely familiar. She's one of the vice presidents.

Heh heh. Whoops?

But then, she said, "When we" -- don't think I didn't notice the presence of this word; I did -- "were selecting the color scheme, I thought it looked like someone spilled a bag of Skittles and said, 'Oh, there's our color palette right there!'"

We laughed. Then another higher-up (only three layers above me in the organization) got on the elevator and he and she talked. She bade me to 'have a good day!' as I left the elevator on the fourth floor.

I can only hope she didn't see my badge. Which I was wearing, prominently, in plain sight, name in a nice, bold font.

Heh. Heh heh. Heh?

I guess I should be really glad that I didn't blurt out what I've been calling the office on my Facebook page: Romper Room.
kaasirpent: (Pimpin')
Thursday, May 2nd, 2013 05:43 pm
Greetings! I have been spreading my love for this particular Kickstarter campaign around on Teh Social Mediaz today (and earlier) because it's a little short and needs more backers. I thought I'd push it in one more place to get more eyes on it. :)

It's for a science fiction and fantasy anthology called Unidentified Funny Objects 2. I read the first volume, Unidentified Funny Objects, not too long ago, and it was extremely good. You could read my Goodreads review of it, if you were so inclined. And then maybe you'll understand why I'd like to see this one get funded.

Do you have $20 to spare for a book chock full of funny science fiction and fantasy stories written by some of the most recognizable names in the genre? Robert Silverberg! Mike Resnick! Ken Liu! Tim Pratt! Jody Lynn Nye! Jim C. Hines! Esther Friesner! And more! All in one volume!

At least click over there and look. And if you find it in your power to give a little something, maybe do that, too.

Funny. Science Fiction. And Fantasy.

[That userpic is one you don't see often. It's my pimp hat. I took that picture MYSELF for just such an occasion as this. I found a pimp hat, and I took a picture of it. Don't make it for nothing.]
kaasirpent: (Spam)
Saturday, November 17th, 2012 06:51 pm
My spammers have been in a rut. I've had hardly any good spam subjects for months. I had to go through some 650 (this week's crop) to cull just these few, suitable for making poetry.

For those not familiar with these little diversions I occasionally do: I go through my Spam folder and look at the subject lines of the many emails there and cull the more interesting ones and arrange them into . . . something resembling a poem. I change them only in making them readable by removing random words and characters and my email address. They're usually quite odd, often quite dirty, and occasionally amusing.

Let's start!

Because of teh foul language. )

And that's all from this edition of Spam Poetry™. Stay tuned next time for . . . pretty much more of the same. Yeah.
kaasirpent: (Spam)
Monday, October 1st, 2012 11:51 am
My spammers aren't even trying, anymore.

I've gotten a small rash of comments on LiveJournal in the last week that just make zero sense.

The purpose of a Spam comment on any sort of Internet forum-like thing is to get people to click the links and get infected by a virus, right?

So what person in their right mind would see something like one of these and think, "Oh, baby! I have to click that link right now!" [Note: Seen below exactly as they appeared except that I disabled the links by changing the http to an httQ, and inserted tree names into the link.]
Subject: bcxzmk beats baratos hrn2
PgsrAAXA [url=httQ://beatsbaratos.webnode.ELMes/]beats baratos[/url]
uqihMYOgv httQ://beatsbaratos.webnode.MAPLEes/
rxlioexfjc [url=httQ://beatsbaratos.webnode.BIRCHes/#2360]beats baratos[/url]
XZVvBotnr vmztuu [url=httQ://beatsbaratos.webnode.PINEes/]beats baratos[/url]
JlcDUOHIaqt

Subject: hlbgyi canada goose expedition parka wbm4
TfamSTAU [url=httQ://canada-goose-jacket.webgarden.SPRUCEcom/]canada goosejacket[/url]
pdgdPNMoo httQ://canadagoosevest.webgarden.CEDARcom/
djrofkduyx [url=httQ://canada-goose-jacket.webgarden.ASPENcom/#0646]canadagoose jacket[/url]
CZIbYrubi wbykro [url=httQ://canadagooseexpeditionparka.webgarden.WILLOWcom/]canada gooseexpedition parka[/url]
EncTJJVGtgk
Clearly, my normally savvy spammers have retired to Bermuda with their millions of dollars in ill-gotten Internet-booty and left these rank amateurs to take over for them. Random strings of letters? Please. Links formatted for an online forum (such as Simple Machines) instead of LiveJournal? Pathetic!

Rookie mistakes, my friends. Rookie. Mistakes. Frankly, I expected better from my spammers. I thought they cared.

Note: I screen all comments that come from anyone not on my friends list, and collect IP addresses. So you won't have ever seen these crop up. But believe me, the frequency has increased, lately.
kaasirpent: (Grammar)
Monday, June 11th, 2012 06:42 pm
I love language. All the nooks and crannies and blind alleys and curlicues and gewgaws that it has to offer. Slang is especially interesting, because sometimes it comes and goes so quickly, but other times, it hangs around for decades or more.

I was listening to the podcast version of a radio show I love called "A Way With Words." The hosts take calls1 about language and answer them.

In the most recent episode, a woman who said she is a journalist called. She was waiting at a Tacoma, Washington police station to see someone, and it was taking a long time, so she had time to browse through some historical papers they had available for the public. One of them was a police report filed on July 13, 1946:
This Jasper picked up a punk on the stem and took him topside of a flicker. After a bit, he gave the boy's pork a fumble. The boy didn't think that was so hot, so he took it on the lam and made a beef to the boss. I answered the call and the boy fingered him at 10th and Broadway. The manager has several beefs on this same bird and has the handle of the beefer.
Her question was, essentially, "Huh-whuh?"

You can figure out a lot of it because some of those are still in use, or we've heard them in films from that era. "Going on the lam," "made a beef," "fingered him," and "handle" in particular are probably familiar to most everyone. But the caller and her co-workers were unable to figure out especially what "punk on the stem," "topside of a flicker," and "bird" meant.

According to Grant Barrett (co-host of the show), this is what that means:
This rube picked up a kid on the main street of town and took him to the balcony of a movie house. After a bit, he gave the boy's crotch a feel. The boy didn't like it, so he took off and complained to the manager of the theater. I answered the call and the boy recognized the offender at 10th and Broadway. The manager has several complaints about the same dude, and has the name of the kid.
Grant also noted that he is 99% sure that this represents a joke on the part of the officer who, 66 years ago, penned this particular report. No one ever spoke like that. You have to try hard to cram that many slang terms into one paragraph, so his assessment was that this was a joke, and the real report was written in more formal Police-lingo, and filed. The joke survived, though, for this reporter to find it so many years later and puzzle over the language.

Ain't English neat?
  1. You can call their hotline and leave a message or send email. If the question is entertaining enough, they'll call back and record the conversation for later editing into what sounds like a sequentially recorded show. The illusion is pretty strong, actually.
kaasirpent: (Pets)
Thursday, May 31st, 2012 05:33 pm
Lucy has a routine. And it goes like this.

Each night, around 10:30 to 11:30, she lets me know in no uncertain terms that it is Time To Feed The Cat ™

No. Uncertain. Terms.

This generally consists of me being head-butted, jabbed with claws, and palpably stared at. It's really rather surprising how much pressure a cat's stare can put on a person.

After—or occasionally before, if none of the pressure or bleeding get my attention—she heads upstairs to find her favorite toy: a little blue pillow, perhaps two inches square, stuffed with rayon batting, and which probably originally had catnip inside it.

She grabs this in her mouth and then starts calling around it. It's a very mournful, lonely sound. We aren't sure whether she "believes" or "thinks" this is a kitten or some prey animal she has killed. Either way, she must bring it into the room where I am and offer it unto me as . . . well, an offering, I suppose. (Etymology is fun.)

We (if my housemate is in the room with me) praise her and tell her what a good mother/hunter she is, we pet her, and generally stroke her feline ego with our limited primate understanding of whatever is going on in her pointed little head.

She then settles down into her nightly ritual of alternately ignoring me or pestering me to get into my lap. Sometimes both at the same time. (Cats are talented.)

When I head upstairs to bed, she follows me. And she watches me. Sometimes, I go right to bed. But often, I go to my home office and watch something on NetFlix. She lies near me, napping, if I do the latter.

Either way, when I head into the bathroom to begin my own evening ritual (flushing my eyes with warm water, brushing my teeth, flossing, putting ointment into my eyes, etc.), she heads out of my bedroom down to where she left the pillow. She retrieves it and brings it to me.

If she's feeling particularly nice (read: unfeline), she'll bring it to me while I'm still in the bathroom. If not, she waits until I'm comfortable under the covers with all the lights turned off . . . and then comes the plaintive cries of whatever-it-is. And I must get out of bed to touch her, or she will keep this up pretty much indefinitely.

Last night, we went through this usual ritual. It went on for an exceptionally long time, and I think I actually managed to fall asleep before she was satisfied that I had seen the pillow enough. (Note: Don't tell Lucy, but I see jack in the dark with ointment in my eyes. What she doesn't know . . . )

Suddenly (it seemed to me), I'm awakened by a sound. I look at the clock. 7:13 AM. Just 17 minutes before my alarm goes off. I roll over and burrow deeper into my pillow, thinking just how wonderful that extra 17 minutes is going to—

And then I hear it again, this time awake and partially conscious. It's a cat. And it's screaming. In 3/8ths of a flash, I'm out of bed, scrambling into clothing, and on my way down the stairs without taking time to wash the ointment out of my eyes. So I can see, but it's blurry. <Cue clip of Han Solo, fresh out of the Carbonite, saying, "I think my eyes are getting better. Instead of a big dark blur, I see a big bright blur.">

I listen for the awful screech again, trying to figure out if Lucy has gotten her head caught in something, or is maybe trapped somewhere bad (like the dryer or a closed toilet), or is hanging from her tail . . . you never know with cats.

My heart is thudding, I'm sweating cold bullets, and my hearing is hypersensitive.

There it is again: a screeching wail that I now recognize, since I'm within 30 feet of it, as a very, very angry cat. Growling low with infinite menace, then crescendoing into a frightening screech of hate, followed by a threatening hiss.

I follow the sound. I find Lucy, standing at the back door, fully fluffed out. Tail as big as a kielbasa. Fur standing on end in a ridge down her back. Ears thrown back. Mouth open in a rictus, fangs showing.

I said, "Lucy?"

And I got this back: "grrrrrrrrrrrOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWRRRRRRRRRR***YAAAAAARRRRRR***—meow?"

That last bit was said as she jumped and looked back over one shoulder at me just after I said, "Lucy?" It's the feline equivalent of "OH HI I DIDN'T SEE YOU STANDING THERE NOTHING TO SEE HERE NOTHING TO SEE MOVE ALONG HOW MUCH OF THAT DID YOU HEAR?"

I looked out the door where she had been standing whilst all this was going down and see a large, fuzzy calico cat sitting quite calmly on the patio, washing one foot, com-PLETE-ly ignoring the evil cat-beast who was convinced he was Adolph Kitler, Napawleon, and a bouncy Jerk Russell terrier puppy all rolled into one.

With her tail still fluffed out to full proportions, Lucy sauntered nonchalantly over to the food bowl to show me that it was no longer full. (Cats are binary creatures: bowls are either full or empty with them; one nibble out of a full bowl and it is then empty. Full bowls are required by the Catstitution.1)

I peeked out the window at the other cat and startled him enough that he leaped up my 8-foot wooden fence and scrambled over it into the neighbors' yard. All they have are hulking teenagers who smoke and drink in their driveway until the wee hours of the morning. Far less threatening than whatever hell-beast looked out the window. (Hi, that would be me.)

Lucy, of course, followed up with one last growl, which my Universal Translator said meant, "Yeah, and don't come back because there's MORE WHERE THAT CAME FROM!" She also added a little nasal snort which the translator said was a feline curse that has no English analogue, but the translator blushed.

I must note here that this is the first time I've ever heard/seen her react this way to another cat. My housemate (Yvonne) has a Siamese, and although we don't let them socialize, Lucy knows Zena is there and seems to have no problem with her existence, or indeed no problem when Zena is brought downstairs to spend a few minutes in my lap as a "reward" for demanding more attention than Yvonne is willing or able to give. In fact, Lucy patently ignores Zena. (Zena, on the other hand, generally disapproves of Lucy. And all other cats. And dogs. And most people.)

Anyway . . .

I de-emptified Lucy's bowl and went upstairs to crawl back into—

And the alarm went off.

Those 17 minutes of sleep would have been sooooooo awesome, too.

  1. The Catstitution was ratified, but then the cats ate all the rats. It's a tragic tail in our country's hisstory. You can read about it on Kitipedia.
kaasirpent: (Work)
Thursday, March 15th, 2012 02:27 pm
I went into the bathroom to wash my hands after lunch, and guess what? They've removed the delay on the towel dispenser and they've also fixed it where it dispenses 8 or 9 inches of towel rather than 4.

Yay!
kaasirpent: (Default)
Friday, March 9th, 2012 03:45 pm
[Error: unknown template qotd]


I have several personalities, each of which I've let come out to play on my journal, from time to time.

There's Skippy the Skeptic, the personification of my inner skeptic. When he comes out, it's usually in the form of—

Really? We're going to do this again?

<sigh> Yes, Skippy.

I still loathe you for calling me Skippy, you know.

How well I do. Because you keep telling me. Over and over. And over.

So, after Skippy came Bradford, the personification of my inner child. I made a joke that my inner child is a 4-year-old brat. Later, he got a name.

WANNA 'NOTHER COOKIE!

Bradford, you can't—

BUT I WANNA!
He's just going to keep shouting until you give in, you know.

I'm nominally in charge, here, you know.

You would be if you'd ever bother to grow a pair.

Aaaand that would be Preston, the Procrastinator. Who is pretty much responsible for my epic ability to procrastinate. And who, for reasons unknown to me, insults me a lot.

I believe that a better word for what you do is 'perendinate,' which certainly describes your actions far better than 'procrastinate.'

Yes, Jürgen. As you probably already figured out, Jürgen is my inner grammar nazi.

You should capitalize 'Nazi.'
What if he doesn't feel like it, you Hitler-loving—
I'M BORED!

Shut up, Bradford!
Be quiet, child!
Waste of your time, Gentlemen.
Why did you capitalize 'gentlemen'? It should not be cap--
I did it just to annoy you.

What-evs. I'm outta here. There's, like, stuff to do. Tomorrow. Or maybe Sunday...
'Outta' is not a word!

<watches them all go> This is what it's like inside my head, some days.

You know, the days where I don't have a stuck song.

I believe you meant 'on which' instead of—

I will hurt you.
kaasirpent: (Random Thought)
Tuesday, December 6th, 2011 05:09 pm
How does Superman shave?
kaasirpent: (Pets)
Monday, November 28th, 2011 02:39 pm
So, this arrived in the mail:
From: Fluffy, Patches, and Mauser, cAttorneys at cLaw
To: Thumbs Monkey Guy with the Cans and the Bowls
Re: Your recent flagrant, malicious, unfair breach of contract

Let it be hereby known that our clients Lucinda B. Branch, DSH (hereinafter referred to as "Lucy") and Matthew Branch, DSH (hereinafter referred to as "Matt") are pursuing felegal action against Thumbs Monkey Guy with the Cans and the Bowls (hereinafter referred to as "Criminal").

Criminal is accused of willingly and with malice aforethought breaching his verbal contract with Lucy and Matt. Nine separate criminal charges are as follows.

On or about Wednesday, November 23rd, 2011 at 5:37 PM, Criminal did provide Lucy and Matt with one can each of Delicious Sustenance (hereinafter referred to as "Meat"), at which point Criminal departed the residence he shares with Lucy and Matt. Our clients allege that the extra Meat constitutes a blatant bribe.

On or about Wednesday, November 23rd, 2011 at 11:45 PM, Criminal had not returned and therefore did not provide Lucy and Matt with Meat as herebeforeagreed in verbal contract initiated July 4, 2009.

On seven further occasions over the period between Thursday, November 24th, 2011 at 7:30 AM and Sunday, November 27th at 5:30 PM, Criminal did not provide Lucy and Matt with Meat as herebeforeagreed in aforementioned verbal contract.

Therefore, pursuant to Criminal cLaw in the Feline State of Georgia, Fluffy, Patches, and Mauser, cAttorneys at cLaw do hereby notify Criminal that unless he wants to be tried in full Feline Court (wherein all accused are Guilty until proven Guilty), he must provide Lucy and Matt (mostly Lucy) with the missing Meat in the form of four (4) cans of Meat (hereinafter referred to as "Meat Deficit"), to be paid at the discretion of Lucy and Matt (mostly Lucy).

Your prompt attention to this felegal matter is appreciated. Failure to meet these requirements may result in mandatory, court-sanctioned Feline Attitude Adjustment Therapy (hereinafter referred to as "Retaliation"). In addition, nightly applications of the Yellow-Handled Brush of Much Cat Scratching (hereinafter referred to as "Bliss") will further positively affect Lucy's and Matt's (mostly Matt's) cattitudes.

Medium-rare sirloin (hereinafter referred to as "Ambrosia") would erase all outstanding Meat Deficit.

Sincerely,

[pawprint]

Fluffy, esq.

P. S. Our firm also represents one Zena Walker, Siamese (hereinafter referred to as "Princess Zena") who alleges similar charges against Criminal's housemate, with the same stipulations and requirements hereinbefore stated.
"Meat Deficit," indeed. I see the cAttorneys at cLaw neglected to mention that Lucy and Matt had dry food available, and plenty of water. Just like a cat to focus on the negative.

Well, I guess I'll get right on that. They've already had one extra can. I guess I'd better provide the other three and the Bliss forthwith or face the catsequences.
Tags:
kaasirpent: (Spam)
Saturday, October 22nd, 2011 04:06 am
It has been more than a year since the last Spam Poetry installment. I guess Spammy the Spammer has been busy trying not to drop the soap in the prison shower, and just hasn't been as creative.

Today's installment of Spam Poetry is rather...meta. Instead of poetry per-sé, these are more like Spam messages...made of Spam subjects.

(Go with me, here.)

These are not work safe, child safe, or safe if you are easily offended. You have been warned. )

This has been another installment of...Spam Poetry™

Note: For Spam Poetry™ I take real spam subject lines that arrived on one of my email accounts and combine them—hopefully in a humorous or provocative manner—to make something at least entertaining out of it. The only changes I make are minor, such as removing random strings of numbers from the ends of the 5 Reasons lines with bermuda, class, etc. They were ugly and hurt the amusement factor. Otherwise, every one is exactly as it arrived.
kaasirpent: (WordPlay)
Thursday, October 13th, 2011 03:20 pm
I'm altogether sure this is not an original thought by any definition of the word 'original,' but I thought it, and I laughed out loud in the men's room. Luckily, I was alone. And now, I share it with you.
Is a burrow for burros an ass hole?
I'll be here all week, folks. Try the veal!
kaasirpent: (Strange)
Wednesday, October 12th, 2011 02:50 pm
This morning, as I do every morning, I awoke to the soothing sounds of NPR. I long ago gave up all other radio BECAUSE THEY CAN'T STOP SHOUTING AT ME and pulling asinine pranks on people while laughing it up all HYUK-HYUK-HYUK WE SHORE DID MAKE A FOOL OUTTA HIM HYUK-HYUK-HYUK.

But because it is NPR, I often automatically make assumptions about the story I hear when I wake up.

This morning, I woke up to them talking about something in that tone they have . . . I couldn't focus on it because I was still groggy. A couple of minutes later, in the bathroom, I realized I was hearing the Banana Boat Song.

On NPR.

I focused on the radio and heard them talking about the life and music of Harry Belafonte.

They kept using the past tense. He was the son of a Jamaican mother and a Martiniquan father. He was involved with civil rights and made some controversial political comments . . .

There were snippets of older interviews with the man, and what sounded like something a lot more recent.

I didn't hear much else because I had to get downstairs right that moment to feed my cat Lucy whose ribs were visible and whose stomach was so empty, it was rivaling the supermassive black hole at the center of the Milky Way in its need for more mass. Preferably chicken flavored, and preferably with gravy.

Well, that's what Lucy told me.

So, given all that I had heard, I just naturally assumed that Harry Belafonte had died. I mean, why else would NPR play Calypso music and play interviews with Belafonte himself and talk at length about his life and career?

I checked Facebook and Twitter periodically and was surprised not to find anything about his death. I just now looked on Wikipedia . . . and discovered that he is very much still alive. Eighty-four years old, but still kicking.

Apparently, he's released a new memoir and that is what they were talking to him about. What I thought were snippets from a more recent interview were, in fact, an interview NPR aired "live" this morning. :)

I thought it was interesting that I just automatically assume any famous person whose music NPR plays is dead and that they're doing a retrospective "look back on the long, illustrious career" of whomever.

Belafonte is also going to be in Atlanta next month at the Carter Center talking about his memoir, which might also have contributed to NPR's coverage.

So . . . Harry Belafonte is (still) not dead. But his music was on NPR, so he might as well be.

;)