The AT&T guy just came and installed DSL. It comes with its own wireless gateway that puts out a wireless signal that all the surrounding neighbors can see. (Password-protected, of course, but they can still see it.)
Anyway, the first thing I did when he left was to go into the configuration and change the name of the wireless network from “2WIRE820” to:
“ALICE COOPER IS YOUR NIGHTMARE”
PG&E phone representative: “Is there anything else I can do for you today?”
Me: “Yes. I think you should throw your hands in the ay-yair. And wave ’em like you just don’t care.”
PG&E rep: “I’m doing it RIGHT NOW.”
This is a true story that just recently happened to a friend of mine whose identity will remain anonymous. But it was just too funny of a twist on things to not post about it.
A few months ago, she met a guy on a dating site. They hit it off quite well… emails and lengthy late-night phone calls, over the course of several weeks. Love was definitely in the air… there was a real connection.
He happened to be a doctor, and was heading to Africa as part of a humanitarian medical program. However, something bad happened there: while in a taxi, he was ambushed and robbed. The driver was killed. He took a bullet and was in the hospital, with no wallet and only able to send out an occasional message. Waiting for his communiques was agonizing because of the extreme uncertainty. Worried beyond belief and wanting to help, my friend sent him some money. A few hundred dollars. She couldn’t send more, but she wanted to help out someone she’d become close with.
Turned out he was a Nigerian scammer. And the taxi ambush and subsequent hospital trip were fictional.
But the best part? He fessed up to her because he had fallen for her.
Now it could be argued that his saying so was just another line fed to her in the scam, but I think it’s unlikely because now that she knew the truth, she certainly wasn’t going to send any more money.
But I was wrong– that wasn’t the best part. The REAL best part is this: she says that they are friends now and still talk sometimes.
No word if she got a refund.
Trusty pal Joyce, in a recent discussion:
“The Rocky Horror Picture Show is open-mic night for nerds.”
A couple of days ago, I found myself in a bit of a long conversation with one of the regulars at the bar I am currently working at. She is a rather loquacious individual, with a quick mind and an observant eye. She and her husband have seen many changes at the bar, so they know of the subtleties and hilarities that go on there. They like to come and bear witness to it all. But yes, she is a chatty one. Two of her topics that she frequently brings up: 1) what to do when the Zombie Apocalypse comes; and 2) ren faires.
So there I was, finding myself cornered into a very one-sided conversation with her about: the zombie apocalypse and ren faires.
She is REALLY into this zombie thing. She has escape routes and defense plans for the bar. (Which begs the question: would zombies really head for a place designed to render braaaaaaaains incapacitated and with dead cells?) But I digress.
Anybody who knows me knows that I have a very low tolerance threshold for ren faire types, and also a very low tolerance, period, of this whole “zombie” fad that has been going on lately. So I posed this query to her:
“Well what would you do if the zombie apocalypse happened during the ren faire? Because in order to be true to character, you wouldn’t be able to use modern technology against them.”
Her thought process abruptly halted while she searched for an answer.
Meanwhile, I made my escape.
This morning, the local homeless guy ambushed me and my trusty pal Joyce as we walked by. (I gave him money once… and he’s never left me alone since. Even after I told him “I got laid off. I’m probably not the best person to ask.”)
Anyway, he ambushed me, and said something that I didn’t think I had heard correctly. “Do you need any change? Like for a cup of coffee?” I thought he was asking for change, but he very clearly said “Do you need any.” I said “no thanks” and walked on.
As I walked away, he shouted: “okay, because I wanted to help you out sometime.”
Yes– I got offered money by a homeless guy who “wanted to help me out.”
The REALLY weird part, though, was this: about a minute earlier, I had asked Joyce if she could cover the cost of my coffee because I had no cash on me.
Who knew that a prescient homeless man was walking the streets of Alameda? I wonder what other sort of divine omniscience he may possess.
Tonight, I found myself taking a walk on the wild side: eating at a really scary Denny’s at a rather trashy casino called the Fiesta.
This was not an optimal combination of circumstances.
But then again, the chain of events leading to our being there was not optimal either. So at the time of evening it was, the only other option was McDonald’s… so really, it was the proverbial “lesser of evils.”
We ordered breakfast stuff, and it was basically dorm-level tastworthiness. But what really intrigued/horrified me was an ad for something called…
What exactly are they?!? An astute third-grader should be able to divine the ingredients given the name. I asked our waiter– a pleasant Brazilian fellow named Aldo– about them. He said “nnnn… they are… deeferent.” It took about ten seconds of arm-twisting to get him to admit that “I doan relly like dem.”
Needless to say, we did not try them.
The tale I’m about to tell is absolutely true. A dear friend of mine cooked up the following wretched concoction earlier today.
The important thing is, however, to note the circumstances: we’re in Las Vegas, buried in stress, putting on an 800-person, big-budget event that happens in less than a week. We are stressed out and under the gun, and having to find nibbles whenever and wherever we have a spare 30 seconds to find them.
It is this– THIS– type of mindset– that prompted the following midafternoon process. I wouldn’t even know what to call this.
This toxic mixture smoked up the whole house. Fortunately, it’s an old house and had no smoke alarm. Or maybe that’s actually unfortunate.
The other day, I found myself at a late-night party. I’m getting old and scary, so this doesn’t usually happen. I was unprepared for what I would encounter there– the description of which alone is enough to turn the stomach:
Marijuana-infused Everclear.
It was a putrid green color with a big branch in it. Bits of plant matter swirling around in it. The guy who had it had “bottled” it last summer, and had let it fester marinate cook cure for ten months. He said that “where he comes from” (Oklahoma) they called this “The Green Dragon.”
Needless to say, I did not take a ride on the Green Dragon.
Last week, I was heading to a restaurant in Berkeley with my trusty pal Joyce. We were going to grab dinner at the Indian place. Telegraph Avenue was fairly deserted– it was about 9:30 at night– but that didn’t stop a Berkeley street rat from finding and accosting us. This one, however, offered something slightly different.
“Hey…” he began. “Are you guys interested in some psychedelic–”
I was expecting him to finish the sentence with “mushrooms” or something like that. I was not expecting the next two words he actually said:
“…vagina necklaces?”
I bought two. Joyce and I each now have our very own psychedelic vagina necklace.
They were these little bi-colored, diamond-shaped fimo clay situations. The really cool thing is that he carefully chose them for us: mine was gray and cream-colored, to perfectly match the jacket I was wearing that had gray and cream colored diamonds. I won’t speculate on his reasoning for choosing Joyce’s, but hers was tiny and pink.
Incidentally– he forgot the clit.