never to be found again
Feb 3rd
One of the many varieties of callers that we get is “The Automaton.” This type of user is trained to do their job by rote instead of understanding what it is they are actually doing. All they know is that if they click the mouse here and type this word here the computer won’t yell at them.
If any small change to their work environment occurs, this will cause immense mental anguish and angry phone calls.
The following conversation took place when I was able to see the user’s screen. She had recently installed a new program, which added one more program in her Start menu.
“My Outlook is missing! I need to find it!”
“Uh, ma’am, it’s…right there,” as I move the mouse to the correct icon.
“No, that’s not right! I always click on Start, then Programs, and then I move my mouse to the right and Outlook was there!”
“Ma’am, it’s right below your mouse, like a quarter inch down. See? Outlook. When you installed that new program, it slid Outlook down to make room.”
“Well…I don’t like it there! I’ve been trying to do work all morning and haven’t been able to!”
Apparently this issue had derailed her productivity for about 6 hours.
And at no point during that six hours did she find the icon for Outlook, which was DIRECTLY BELOW WHERE IT USED TO BE.
post you tuesday
Feb 2nd
I’m going to try something new today and see if the blagonet collapses into a singularity of memes and buttons. I’m going to keep adding electron’s to this atom and see how heavy of an element I can form without it going critical and taking us all down.
So, on the off chance that creation as we know it ends, have a drink and sing a song and prepare to go out happy.
I’m combing “Post-It Tuesdays” and “Thank You” Tuesdays into “Post You Tuesdays” (Thank It Tuesdays doesn’t quite have the same ring).
Onwards and upwards and let’s expand the boundaries of science!
thank you note tuesday
Jan 26th
Instead of getting mad at someone who has wronged you, get thankful. Order yourself a nice, big bowl of Thankyou with a side of snark. And some bread for the table, because everyone likes bread. Don’t appear ungrateful; thank you notes are the ideal way to let someone know how they impacted you and that you’re appreciative of the perspective they have afforded you. Even Ms. Manners would agree.
Dear Computer Illiterate Customers,
I understand that nobody is born knowing all there is to know about computers, but I’d like to thank you for calling me first. And by “first” I mean “as soon as the computer beeps”. You remind me that I will always have job security, and for that I thank you,
Sincerely,
Tech Support
p.s. The cable to your printer DOES have to be actually plugged in.
Dear Coffee Machine Guy,
Thank you for fixing the coffee machine and making it dispense hot water again; the lukewarm brown liquid was getting old. Double thank you for not actually giving us coffee to put in it. I’m not sure exactly what is in those bags, but when brewed it has the flavor of dirt. If I add sugar and creamer, it vaguely changes the color but not the taste. Whatever it is, it also must have about fifty times the normal amount of caffeine because that stuff hits me like James Brown. Clearly you have invented a new substance previously unknown to mankind, and you are to be commended for thinking of a novel use for it.
Sincerly,
Can’t stop twitching
Dear Bioware,
Thank you for releasing Mass Effect 2 and every other awesome video game you’ve ever made. Thank you for creating such addicting games that I can’t possibly stop playing them. Thank you for taking so much of my money. Thank you for making me repeatedly say, “Just one more quest and I’ll go to bed.” Thank you for ruining my ability to get a full night of sleep. Thank you for basically taking over control of my life until I beat the game.
Sincerely,
Couch Zombie
the monster rides again
Jan 25th
For those eagle-eyed readers who come to my page instead of just reading my words of wit in Reader (yeah I’m guilty of that too), you may have noticed I’ve added another page and another box to my sidebar regarding the Tour de Cure. This is a bike ride that raises money for the American Diabetes Association, and is held across the country.
Everyone knows at least one person who has diabetes, and odds are they are able to live a normal and successful life while dealing with it. It’s because of research and work done that this condition is able to be controlled as well as it is, but the fact remains it is still a major health concern.
I know that in the wake of Haiti and other concerns that need our assistance, this cause might not be at the top of your list, and hopefully you have donated to them already. But if there is one thing we have proven before it’s that our generosity knows no limits.
If you have anything left over, please go to my pledge page to give; there is no amount too small. The website takes credit cards and will give you a receipt.
To sweeten the pot, I’m throwing down this challenge as well:
The more you give, the more I will ride.
That’s right folks, I will ride further for more money because I’ll do anything for more money. The race has three different lengths, and I’ve set amounts for distances fairly arbitrarily, but I’m sticking with them so no trying to change my mind. Unless you give me money, and then I might.
- $100 = 25k
- $200 = 60k
- $300 = 100k
If I raise over $300, I’ll take suggestions on what else I should do during the race (e.g. put streamers on my handlebars, grow out a mustache, sing showtunes at the 50k marker).
I also have a empty, white jersey that needs filling up. You know how bikers/racecars/any flat surface in a stadium is covered in ads? I will be that flat space. I will put all the names of anyone who pledges onto my jersey. I’ll attempt to use my limited graphic design skills to make you a logo (I’m not just going to write your name on with a Sharpie) but if you want to design your own logo, bring it on!. Want your business to get some free ad space? Donate and send me the ad!
Please, go to my page and see where the progress is at. If you know someone with diabetes or want to share your story, click on the Tour de Cure link on my nav bar and leave a note.
I need your help!
And thank you for your support.
how…how is that possible?
Jan 22nd
I’m not what you would call a gourmet chef, but if I ever ended up on some cooking battle show, I’d have to say my style is steeped in “Bachelor Cheffery.”
When I left home to go to college, I was forced to cook for myself for the first time. Being of meager income, my meals mainly consisted of ramen, pasta, bulk frozen chicken breasts, cereal, eggs, and other simple staples. I never really kept a lot of food around, because I hated going to the grocery store and would only get necessities for survival (i.e. beer).
However, like many single guys, I managed to accumulate an inordinate amount of condiments and spices. I had more ketchups and mustards and barbecue sauces and dressings and such than you could shake a stick at, and my huge box of bulk dried spices would take that stick and beat you with it. The bonus of this style of cooking was that you could take plain, boring items and make them interesting so you would actually want to eat them. Ramen comes with those little flavor packets, but if you add a little szechuan sauce it became edible. I became adroit at taking random ingredients that you would never think would go together and making food.
I put sliced brats in the stir fry, mac and cheese on the pizza, and basil and oregano on everything. Hot sauce and salsa would go in the eggs, Hamburger Helper would help more than just hamburger, and ranch dressing was my best friend.
Occasionally, my cooking style has led to mishaps. While usually this just results in making terrible, terrible food that no human without a cast-iron stomach should ingest, it has rarely resulted in kitchen destruction or anything catastrophic.
Except for the one time where I defied the laws of physics.
This was a day where I wasn’t feeling particularly inspired for lunch, so I took one of those bags of noodles with all the spices and stuff all in one and dumped it into a small pot of boiling water. I know they say stir constantly, but seriously, I’m not going to stand there for three minutes and stir things. So I walk away for a couple minutes, and when I come back, the pot of water is on fire.
Let me repeat: the pot (a metal container) of water (a substance used to extinguish fires) is on fire (the opposite of water).
I sat there and stared at the flames shooting out of the water, thoroughly confused. Was it something on top of the water that was burning? No, I didn’t add any oil, and it looked like the fire was coming OUT OF the bubbling water, not on top of it.
I called my roommate into the kitchen, and we both stared at the burning water for about a minute, trying in vain to determine what caused it.
In our wonderment, we forgot that smoke alarms are loud and annoying, so I took the pot off the burner. When I dumped out the water, I found all the noodles had become stuck to the bottom of the pot. Actually, “stuck” doesn’t accurately describe what happened to the noodles; they had morphed into a hardened adamantine lump which was welded to the bottom of the pot.
My only theory is that the noodles got stuck to the bottom of the pot, and as they were in direct contact with the metal, were able to heat up to the point where they could burst into flames. When the water started boiling, a little air was able to get down to the superheated noodlekindling, and viola! we have fire!
Either that or God just wanted to see my face when he made water burn.
the cure to what ails you
Jan 21st
Cheers for Thursdays in which the blagonets reverberate with the sound of TMI broadcast around the world and preserved for future generations to discover and wonder at the mistakes made by their ancestors. Hip hip!
Back in college, one of the most important aspects for the first two years was of course who your roommate was. Some folks roomed with a friend from high school and prayed that their friend didn’t end up turning into their worst enemy due to an unfortunately fight involving who drank the last Fresca and didn’t get more or who slept with who’s boyfriend even though you two totally had a fight and LOOKED like you were broken up, gawd. Some folks took the chance on the random roommate assignment and hoped that the stranger liked to do their laundry and didn’t shave their armpits over the futon every Wednesday because the shower was scary and full of other people and they have “trust issues.”
And then there were the folks who tried method number two and ended up with an incompatible roommate and tried to change roommates during semester break.
This typically involved getting the consent of the RA and the student life office, all sorts of paperwork, mediation classes, etc. The easiest way was for both roommates to go to the RA’s office and say, “We hate each other, and you need to move us before someone gets stabbed with a ruler.”
I had a friend who we’ll call Pez because she was about as big as a Pez dispenser. Anyway, Pez had a roommate that she hated, but their feud was to the point where rather than change rooms, the roommate wanted to stay in the same room in order to make Pez’s life even more hellish. So when the RA asked if she wanted to change roommates, she refused and made Pez stay with her.
Pez came by one day while I had some other friends in my dorm room and was once again livid with her roommate. ”How the hell should I get this chick to want to move out? How do I get her to leave?” she asked us.
Of course this generated an entire list of terrible things to do to the roommate, but the catch was that most of these suggestions would somehow result in Pez being discovered as the culprit behind the fiendish prank. Even if it couldn’t be proven that Pez was the evildoer, she didn’t even want to have it be assumed she was the evildoer.
Finally, one of my friends exclaimed, “I’ve got it! You should crap in a sock and leave it in her drawer! What’s she going to do, accuse you of crapping a sock and leaving it in her drawer? Only a crazy person would accuse someone of that!”
This little bit of advice has come in handy more times than you’d think. Have a cranky coworker? Crapsock on their desk. Neighbor always mowing the lawn at 10pm? Crapsock in the mailbox. Kids won’t shut up about some stupid cartoon or toy that somebody stole from them? Crapsock in their breakfast cereal. The crapsock will probably not fix any of these situations, but it would make you feel better.
I’m trying to get a trademark and a patent on the crapsock so I can begin selling it on late night infomercials, but until then, feel free to make and utilize your own crapsock.
who’s on first
Jan 19th
If you’ve ever wondered why tech support people are cranky, here’s probably the conversation they had right before you called. This is an actual transcript of a conversation between the service desk and end user yesterday:
User: I can’t long in
Tech: What does it say on your screen when you try?
User: ”Locked out” or “invalid password something……”
Tech: Ok, I unlocked your account, please type in your password again
User: What password?
Tech: The password you normally type into this login screen
User: My new one or the old one?
Tech: Did you change your password recently?
User: No
Tech: Type in the last one you used to get logged in
User: I don’t know what that is?
Tech: I’ll just reset it to the default password; use Ab1234.
User: Ok, so Ill type in my old one.
Tech: No, type in Ab1234
User: Ok, I’m in. So what password will I use?
Short and fast one today. I had to work this last weekend so I didn’t get a head start on posting for this week, which is normally how I put out multiple posts that are actually funny.
musical memoir monday – felmo is free
Jan 18th
It’s memoir mondays, where I still studiously refuse to capitalize proper nouns and post headings, and where once again I subject you all to old music that I found on an old hard drive. So sit back, get a cup of fair trade coffee, let your goatee grow out, and feel the rageangst of a bunch of teenagers.
At the height of our popularity, we had oh, maybe about 100 fans, and I’m judging that by the number of CD’s we sold. Total. Go figure. Anyfame, this song was one of our more popular ones, probably because it contained the lyrics, “I’m bored, young, and horny and have the world on a string.” We even had tshirts made that just had a picture of a board, a baby, and devil’s horns on them, and I think we might have made our money back on that venture.
This was from another live show, and if you’re wondering why all the tracks are from live shows, its because we played much better live than in a studio, or at least it felt that way to me. And when I listen to the live shows, I remember what that place looked like, who all showed up, and you can hear those people cheering in the background…makes me wish I hadn’t stopped playing.
And here’s the mandatory: please to enjoy Abuse Me Felmo’s Free.
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friends of friends who nobody knows
Jan 14th
Cheers for Thursdays in which the blagonets hum with the sound of TMI broadcast around the world and preserved for future generations to discover and wonder at the mistakes made by their ancestors. Hip hip!
In my junior year of college, my friends and I rented both floors of this large old house on campus. We had ten people living in this place, which basically turned it into…well you can probably imagine. I lived down on the first floor, which usually had the most people hanging out in it because we actually kept it clean (the upstairs was only safe for those with prior immunizations for tropical diseases and a cannabis immunity). We even hung a pretend fraternity sign on our porch with Delta Tau Chi, and if you don’t know what that means, I have pity on you.
We had a friend, Joel, that was going to spend the second semester abroad, so he didn’t want to rent an apartment that he’d have to sublet after a couple months. We didn’t have any more bedrooms available for him, but we did have a closet under the stairs. For a visual, picture the Harry Potter closet, because thats exactly what it looked like. His “room” was about 6′x3′ with a slanted ceiling. He just threw an air mattress and sleeping bag in there, and was pretty content. We called him “The Little Jew Under The Stairs.”
One weekend, it was roommate Chris’ birthday. He invited a couple friends from his hometown that nobody else knew to come on over, and they brought their other friends, and we had our regular weekend party on top of that.
Fast forward to the background of drinking and revelry that you’ve seen in every teen comedy movie since the 80′s. The house was full of people, and the party was in full swing. Over the next couple hours, it becomes apparent that these extra friends are kinda sketchy. People actually start closing and locking doors just so their belongings don’t walk away, women are afraid to stand to close to them, general skeeviness, that sort of thing.
Birthday boy Chris is made to drink too much, and calls it a night before the end of the party, so now there is no buffer between us and his vagrant acquaintances. The party is pretty much winding down anyway, so everyone clears out and head off to various bedrooms, and the degenerates disappear to the upstairs.
I’m sitting on the couch winding down with two of the other roommates from my floor, Sahil and Hamil, when the front doorbell rings. We look at each other, because nobody ever rang the doorbell there; the front door was perpetually unlocked. Hamil gets up to answer the door, and we hear this exchange:
Hamil: “Can I help you?”
Large African American Lady: “Yeah, I got a call…”
Hamil: “A what?”
LAAL: “A call, I got a call for Chris.”
Hamil: “…Excuse me, what? A call? Call for what?”
LAAL: “I…GOT…A…CALL.”
Hamil: “oh…OH! Hang on a minute.”
Hamil wisely leaves the woman at the door, and comes back into the living room with a look of horror on his face.
“Guys, there’s a fat, ugly prostitute on our front step asking for Chris.”
Roommate Sahil and I just start laughing, because that sentence is awesome, and I mean gut busting, rolling on the floor laughter at the absurdity of the situation. This is clearly the work of Chris’ miscreant friends, so Hamil goes upstairs to wake one of the culprits and make them deal with the situation. As he walks up the stairs, his footsteps and our laughter is enough to wake Joel from under the staircase. He rolls out from his little cubbyhole, and wanders into the living room all sleepyfaced.
“Guys, what the hell is going on?”
“Dude! There’s a prostitute on our front steps!”
“What? For real?”
“Yeah!”
He kind of nods, walks over and opens the door, and says to the lady very politely, “Excuse me…shoo. Shoo! Get out! Out, out! Shoo!”
Our own little Harry Potterstein shooed the hooker away from the house like he was getting rid of the neighbors cat.
my life does not require popcorn
Jan 13th
I read this article about Avatar making people depressed, and I can say I’m one of them. Not because I won’t ever go to Pandora, but because if they had spent 1/100th of their budget on a script it would have been even better.
Cards on the table, I really liked this movie, and thought it was very good. One of the best movies I’ve ever seen? No. To me, one of the qualities I like in a good movie is how every day after you’ve seen it, it makes you think about it more, and your appreciation for it grows. Avatar just seemed to fade away, and I started thinking about the numerous issues I had with the script. But I will say this, if you’re going to go see it, spend the extra couple bucks and go to IMAX 3d because it’s worth it.
The giant blue aliens were awesome, and since they were all muscular, beautifully toned physical specimens, of course everyone who watches them will have their imaginations wander about what it would be like… but guess what? They’re computer generated images, just like Sharon Stone. They might look good on screen, but they don’t exist in reality.
I walked out of the theater thoroughly impressed with the images I had just seen, but did I want to go to Pandora and live there? Hell no! EVERYTHING ON THAT PLANET IS TRYING TO KILL YOU! There was not one “nice” inhabitant of that damn planet, JUST LIKE LIVING IN THE JUNGLE ON THIS PLANET. If I were stupid enough to go and try to live in the jungle on Earth, I’d be dead within a week. And in this case, I’m dealing with animals and critters and plants that are somewhat recognizable and I probably saw on the discovery channel at some point.
Oh, and what else does Pandora have? FLOATING MOUNTAINS. That’s right, they have entire island-sized hunks of stone that are FLOATING IN THE AIR FOR NO REASON. And that doesn’t scare the crap out of you, because it does me. If I ever saw a floating mountain above my house, you wouldn’t even be able to ask me if I wanted to go live there because I’d be too busy cleaning the poop out of my pants.
Good stories are supposed to transport you to the realm that they take place in. When I read Lonesome Dove, I could practically taste the dust of the trail in my mouth. Did I want to go be a cowboy in the 1800′s? Not really. Harry Potter does a fantastic job of creating its own world with its own rules and wonders, but I didn’t want to be a wizard. Does this mean that I lack imagination or empathy or something that is making me less than human? Maybe.
At least I don’t want to commit suicide because the blue aliens aren’t real.
Or maybe thats just called balance.
