My arm hurts.

That was my obvious ploy for sympathy. Did it work? I’ll make a sad face if it helps.

In the absence of content, a new layout.

And a picture.

This is what happens when you listen to the soundtrack from Kill Bill for eight straight hours. You expect stuff to blow up and the Crazy 88 everywhere. Japanese schoolgirls and women in yellow jumpsuits.

Dammit, I gotta see that movie again.

(Yes, I realize that I changed the layout yesterday. But I did not finish tweaking it until today.

I do wish it was just as easy to change my furniture.

Life needs a cascading style sheet and HTML tags. Now, that would be cool. And strange. But mostly cool. People should be clickable. A little hand should appear over them when you point your hand at them… and I have no fucking clue where I going with this. However, all I can think of now is the ability to drag people I dislike to the Recycle Bin. For um…recycling.

Okay, I just creeped myself out. And not even in a nice way.

Other less creepy stuff, minimize people, maximize them, save them for later, print them out (colour (Fuck you Word! It’s colour and not color!) or grayscale), send them over the internet, share them over peer to peer networks…Boy, none of this is any less creepy. )

Um, yeah. New layout.

(One of these days I’ll write something without brackets and I will pop off from sheer amazement. It seems unnatural to write anything without brackets. Brackets are where all the fun is. The paragraph is where all the moral, upstanding words live. But the brackets are where all the action takes place. The brackets are the seedy underworld of the blog post. The place of high speed word chases, and word shoot outs. Where super-word-heroes, like BatWord and SpiderWord fight crime, the word-fia led by the nefarious “LOL”, and his associates, the criminal underbosses, “U”, “4” and “l8r”.

I see a movie idea here. Something Noir-ish (Noir-esque? Noir-litic? Noir-mal?), with lots of explosions (Bang! Boom! Stunt Words used in the explosions) and semi-naked women.)

I usually not like people who smile too much (Smirking is a different matter altogether). That ten thousand watt smile may be pleasant, but after a while it will probably begin to grate.(Yes, I revel in being grumpy and grouchy. I have a ten thousand watt frown! If one of the fucking ghosts of Christmas came in to visit me, I’d throw something heavy at it, maybe a toaster or a large can of tomato puree. (I do have a large can of tomato puree that I bought last December and haven’t opened yet.) Except for the Ghost of Christmas Past. He’s cool.)

But far more annoying are the blank insincere smiles that the people in commercials have. They’re smiling for no fucking reason whatsoever. Nobody smiles when they are vacuuming, or when they are cleaning the toilet bowl, or when taking the trash out. (And how the fuck can they hold that smile for the entire duration of the commercial? While talking! It is unnatural, and probably involves plastic surgery, black magic and tons of duct-tape.)

No, the look on your face at that time is one of pained disgust, or a look of pained martyrdom, or a look of pained pain. No fucking smiling happens. No wide eyed looks of delight, no happy skipping with a dripping toilet brush in your hands. No looking into the toilet bowl with wide eyed wonder.

Inappropriate smiling involves smiling when you are in the presence of any cleaning product. If you are in the room with something that’s sole purpose in life is getting the gunk off your bathroom floor do not fucking smile like a supermodel just offered to bump uglies with you.

Ban those looks of childlike delight when the fucking Amazing Wonder Mop picks the grungy icky grime from off the floor. And if you show me a split screen with the leading competitor’s product, with it being used by a lady less attractive than the one using used by your product, I will come by your offices and tar and feather you. Except that instead of tar I will use the grungy grime that you used in your commercial.

No more smiling while advertising exercise products. Nobody has a smile of joy when they are on the treadmill. They grimace and look pissed off. Nobody stares off into the distance with a exalted smile as they use the device that will give them a six pack in three weeks if they use it for sixty three seconds a day. And frankly the implicit message in that commercial is that you (presumably gullible viewer) will end up looking like the person in that commercial if you just buy the product. That is fucking deceptive. But, if you are dumb enough to fall for that, you deserve to end up with the BoFlex Cardio-Ab-Ass Machine. You’ll never use it and I hope that the guilt eats you up inside. Either that or that the delivery people drop it on your toe. Try having a fucking exalted smile on your face then.

No smiling at the sight of breakfast cereal. People are not supposed to be cheery before breakfast. If they are, I will come by and shove their heads into the bowl. I’ll have a fucking exalted smile then.

No smiling when peddling pills. And no running past the side effects in a matter of seconds. If the side effects involve shortness of breath, hallucinations and death, I want to know about them. Without being blinded by the smile. Please.

Feel free to smile during a fast food advertisement. I enjoy watching people have coronaries as bright smiles flit across their faces. Much like a butterfly in the spring flitting across a field right before it becomes an early afternoon snack for some enterprising bird.

Grinning allowed during toothpaste commercials. But I’d prefer grimacing. (That’s just me and I’m willing to be flexible here.) But again, no fucking splits screens and please, please, stops using black dots to represent bacteria. I’d like to see something new. Perhaps, the grungy, grimy, gunk from that other commercial.

And more semi-naked women in beer commercials. They can smile as much as they want to. It is not in the least bit inappropriate. Hey, you‘re objectifying women, but at least you are being honest about it.

And Victoria’s Secret commercials. Smile as much as you want to. Or not. I’m really not paying attention to the smile part of the commercial. (One however does wonder who Victoria was, and what was her secret? Secret underwear? Like a secret agent? Undercover underwear? Underwear that used to work for MI6 and spy on the countries beyond the Iron Curtain? Was this underwear responsible for the fall of communism and the destruction of the Soviet Union? What was the underwear’s undercover alias? Was it impersonating a mild mannered shirt in the day and at night it would hunt down East German agents in West Berlin? I sense movie possibilities here. A movie with lots of loud explosions and semi-naked women. Or a movie with lots of loud women and semi-naked explosions)

So yeah, I got nothing.

Dhi Only One tagged me.

I am thinking

…With my brain and not with my genitalia. (Well…maybe someday)

I said

…I was out of town when the crime took place. But the cops did not believe me. They threw me into prison and I had my android henchman bust me out off that joint. We escaped through the sewers. And there we ran into Ras-Karfur, the alligator lord of the sewers. Many had faced him and had failed. But I had a shotgun and so in short order he resembled pâté de foie crocodilia. But just at that moment, when I thought I was home safe…Space Ninja Pirates from Outer Space.

…Fuck.

…Far too much.

…Far too little.

I want

… Stuff. (Refer to statement made with respect to regret)

…Two supermodels, a pair of handcuffs and butter. Lots of butter.

…That which I cannot have.

I wish

…I have no truck with genies. None whatsoever.

…That…Yeah, not gonna type that.

…That…Or that.

…That…Um, that’s just plain nasty.

I miss

…Bangalore.

I hear

…The circus is in town.

…The sound of music.

…The lamentations of their toasters.

…That the Nazgul ride again.

I wonder

…”Paint your own pottery studio” or …”Paint your “own pottery studio””

…”Who the fuck was Alice?”

I regret

…That I am not the kind of person who shares his regrets.

I am
…Spartacus.

…As transparent as a concrete wall.

…A transparent concrete wall.

…A member of the Human Saunter.

I dance…

…When just the right amount of drunk. (And I was past that point on Monday, so stop throwing that in my face!)

…Badly

…The Light Fantastic.

I sing

…In the shower.

…Of my deepest feelings. (Yeah right!)

…In the car.

I cry

…No I don’t. And you do not have the proof to say otherwise.

…Except during ET.

I am not

…What I was four years ago.

…Spartacus.

…A nice person.

I write

…Like I speak.

…Stuff that I will never publish.

…Inspirational tracts for the spiritual upliftment of mankind. (Fuck! I’m pretty sure upliftment is a word. Damn you Word’s red squiggly line.)

…To a captive audience.

I confuse

…Myself.

…Others.

…Stuff. (Refer to statement made with respect to regret)

…Alien Ninja Space Pirates with camels.

I need

… Stuff. (Refer to statement made with respect to regret)

…Two supermodels, a pair of handcuffs and butter. Lots of butter.

…what I cannot have.

I should

…Do stuff. (Refer to statement made with respect to regret)

…Hit the sack soon.

…Lose six pounds.

I finish

…With a bang. BANG.

…With a whimper. Yelp.

While on the topic of genies, is this the deal with them, “Rub my “lamp” and I’ll make your wishes come true.”?

Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Say no more.

I hope that I have successfully ruined every story in the Arabian Nights. Ones that have genies. The other ones are fine. Particularly the ones with the Vampire Robot Pirate Ninja from Outer Space. Go back and read the book. I’m sure it the name of the story was The Vizier and the Vampire Robot Pirate Ninjas from Outer Space. Or it could be The Vizier and the Camel. One of the two. I could be mistaken…because camels are rather like Vampire Robot Pirate Ninjas from Outer Space. Just without all the vampirism, roboticness and pirated sneakiness.

I’m absolutely scraping the bottom of the barrel here.

I got nothing.

And speaking of nothing. That was what I was afraid I would have had to have had for dinner tonight (That sentence seems far too convoluted to be right. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a have had in such close proximity to another have had. It’s like when you see one Vampire Robot Pirate Ninja. You would be surprised. You’d go, “What the fuck was that” or if you prefer something less colorful. “Egads! What in heaven’s name was that?”.

But then you’d move on and you might tell people at work about it, “Hey! I saw a Vampire Robot Pirate Ninja at the Burger King on Route one yesterday.” And they might believe you…or not. I rather think that more people would believe you rather than disbelieve you. Benefit of the doubt and all that shit.

“Yes, I’ve known him for a year now. He doesn’t get high…more than twice a week. Fuck it. Let’s believe him.” The “him” here is you who saw the Vampire Robot Pirate Ninja.

(Word is going insane with my writing. There are green squiggly lines everywhere. Like snakes reproducing in the spring. Green squiggly snakes. Or maybe organisms that are green and squiggly and reproduce in the spring. Fuck that, I’m no biologist.)

And they would believe you and you could talk about it at lunch. Or over dinner. Or use it as a pick up line at the bar.

You: “Hey I saw a Vampire Robot Pirate Ninja at the Burger King on Route One.”

Hot Blonde at bar: No way!

You: Oh yeah!

And then hopefully we shall pull a discrete curtain over some tasteful Horizontal Mamboifying. Or nasty Horizontal Mamboifying. Whatever tickles your fancy. Your Horizontal Mambofying could consist purely of your fancy being tickled..

Yeah, Lets abandon this train of thought.

But if you had the audacity to claim that you saw not one, but two fucking Vampire Robot Pirate Ninjas at the Burger King on route one you would be laughed out of town.

“Yes, I’ve known him for a year now. He does get high twice a week. Fuck it. Let’s burn him at the stake.” The “him” here is you who saw the Vampire Robot Pirate Ninja.

The lunch, dinner and bar scenarios are absent in this case because well you have been burnt bat the stake. Not a pleasant way to go, but completely your fault for making up stories about seeing two Vampire Robot Pirate Ninjas. The gall! )

So yeah. I found some noodles.

I got nothing. Really.

…many things.

But boring is NOT one of them.

(Take that you evil person, you. You know who you are!)

(I really, really like brackets.)

(And cheesecake.)

(And bru…Never Mind.)

(Add open ended statements to that.)

(And smirking.)

(And saying frig when I’m alone and fuck when I’m around people.)

(And making random observations. For instance, I came up with this wonderful plan for a friend who has issue with flipping people off on the road who annoy him. I suggested that he throw a salad at them.

Why?

Because nobody likes salads. And this shows that he put some thought into it, instead of a mere wag of that middle finger.

I said random observations. Not random and funny.)

I’ve realized that all my drives, the ones to get over my bad moods, have a certain pattern to them.

And here is the pattern.

At some point I will have to decide whether to go left or right, and I will not make my mind up until the last second.

At some point I will turn the radio off.

At some point I will pull into a gas station. (If the gas station is in New Jersey, the guy who pumps the gas will probably be Indian and will insist on talking to me in Hindi. At that point I will gleefully practice my atrocious Hindi on him.)

At some point I will turn the heater up all the way for no good reason.

At some point I will kick my shoes off and drive barefoot.

At some point I will begin to miss Bangalore terribly.

At some point I will see a funny road name.

At some point I will have to swerve to avoid a cute, furry animal that is doing its damndest to become roadkill.

At some point I will start thinking about my next blog post.

At some point I will be doing thirty in a fifty five zone.

At some point I will pull over to let the guy behind me, the one getting increasingly pissy about me doing thirty, pass me.

At some point I will turn the heater off,

At some point I will whistle or hum a tune under my breath.

At some point my bad mood will dissipate.

At that point I will find a place to take a U-turn to get back to my apartment.

At that point I will realize that I am thirty five miles from my apartment.

At that point I will realize that the place I am in is very dark and very, very, very creepy.

At that point I will check my rear view mirror for angry mummies, hungry zombie, large carnivorous dinosaurs and rabid toasters.

At that point I will begin to think about vampires and that one movie where the serial killer was hidden away in the back seat of the victim’s car.

At that point I will twist in my seat and examine my back seat.

At that point I will turn the radio on.

At some point after that I will be doing sixty in a thirty zone.

At some point I will have to swerve to avoid a cute, furry animal that is doing its damndest to become roadkill.

At some point I will wonder if I will be late to work tomorrow.

At some point I’ll reach home.

When I moved into this apartment last September, I decided that I needed a toaster. A toaster that could toast both bread and bagels (Not simultaneously. Well simultaneously if you’d prefer the bagel barely toasted or the bread slice done to a nice burnt crisp.). And this toaster that would allow me to have a moderately civilized breakfast. It would rescue me from the cereal that I have had nearly every single fucking weekday morning that I have been in this country. (Post Cranberry Almond Crunch…Positively Cranberrifically Almondy and Crunchalicious)

Well, that did not happen. The toaster sits on the countertop gathering dust and slowly, but oh so steadily going insane. Even toasters have feelings, you know. And this toaster is more emotional than most. It sits there on the countertop thinking evil thoughts and planning my demise. It scares me.

And it has an accomplice. A sandwich maker. Equally neglected and unused.

Neither of the two has been able to make me give up my cereal addiction. And now they wait for their moment. Perhaps one bright morning they will pop up and ambush me…

Yeah, I still have nothing to write about. My excuse for those previous paragraphs could be that I’m high. But I do not do mind-altering drugs, (I’m high on Life. Say no to drugs kids. Life: the anti drug.) And I have been sadly sober for so many months. But seriously, doesn’t a toaster not performing its function cause some kind of Karmic Stress in the Universe? A rip in the fabric of space time through which the legions of Hell could come pouring through. (Wouldn’t it be nice if the legions of Hell sauntered through, or walked through at a steady pace? But no, they’re mean and ugly and they pour. It is what they do. And they do not even wipe their feet on the doormat. Rude fuckers)

That incidentally is the premise of Doom. Doom, the game and not Doom, the state of Rajneesh’s social life. Rip in the fabric of space time. Big bad monsters come through (with muddy feet); Neanderthal-ic hero blows holes in them. Huzzah. (And Gadzooks!). The premise works for a game.

Not so fucking much for a movie. Yes, Doom the movie does exist. And in a stroke of cinematic brilliance (And by brilliance, I mean asinine stupidity), the movie tries to preserve the first person perspective of the game, which consists of a gun shooting stuff at stuff (Insert phallic/reproductive reference here). I don’t suppose that it could be much worse than a movie about the Da Vinvi Crap. (Which should have been shot in the same way, first person perspective, but instead of a gun we have um… a soduku puzzle book, and instead of monsters we have Eccentric English Noblemen. And if you care that I gave away the wafer thin plot of that “book” go fuck your self with a rusty fork. Or go fork yourself with a rusty fuck. Whatever tickles your cutlery!)

I’ve decided that I’ll be producing movies based on games too. My first one will be about Minesweeper. Explosions. Sex. Mines. Explosive Sex in Mines. Tons of gratuitous nudity. (Women only! Yes I’m sexist. Go fuck off!)

Clever dialog:

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Boom!”

“Of all the mines in the world why did she have walk into mine?”

“Frankly my dear, I don’t sweep a mine!”

“I’m the king of the mine. Boom!”

“Luke, I am your Boom!”

“Andy came to Mineshank in NineteeenBoomityBoom.”

“Boom T go home!” (Okay I cried during ET. I was five for pity’s sake, and ET was so sick and “ET go home”. If you did not cry you were a heartless monster.)

Catchy tag lines:

“Part Man, Part Mine. All Boom.”

“A Boom sixty five million years in the making.”

And I’ll follow it up with a movie about Pac Man. A touching family movie about how a yellow circle with a mouth ate ghosts. On second thoughts screw the family movie part. It can be the new movie in the Ghost Buster series. Ghost Busters 3: Lots of Naked women.