How to Go to Mars
1. Enter e-mail address
2. Enter password
3. Go to Mars
4. Die?
I like this tweet, if I do say so myself. And I do. I just did.
“At any rate, do you want to buy this insurance?” - insurance sales guy
— Andy Holdeman (@andyholdeman)
Hahaha: Translating Laughter in GChats
Ha = “Good point, sir or madam. I wasn’t expecting that sort of mildly clever response to break up the boredom of this mundane textual conversation about nothing.”
Haha = “I know you’re trying to be funny, and I appreciate your efforts, but either (a) your chat was a failed comedic attempt that was simply not humorous, or (b) I’m not in the mood to be amused right now.”
Hahaha = “Bravo, that was legit funny. Also, I’m in pretty good spirits at this moment.”
Bwahahahaha+ = “You’re being hilarious. And I’m pretty jealous that I’m not as funny as you are but you’re definitely funny so mad props.”
lol = “Seriously, shut up. I’m too nice to ignore you.”
Congrats El Presidente. This time—a litte smoother, a little grayer, and with the proclamation, “I did it!”
1 of the Most Tragic Days Ever
I cannot believe the Broncos lost to the Ravens.
I cannot believe the Broncos lost to the Ravens.
I cannot believe the Broncos lost to the Ravens.
If I keep writing that will it universe-reverse and become untrue? Probably no?
I disproportionately love football, yes, yet I’m still a fairly well-adjusted human. But this feels different. This is jarring.
When Peyton Manning and friends mystifyingly (and mysteriously, refs) came up short against Baltimore, I free-falled into shock and have not returned to normalcy since.
It’s been like three days.
This is probably one of the top 5 most tragic experiences of my life. And yes, I realize how dumb-ridiculous that sounds.
So I have two choices to correct course:
a) Take a step back and re-prioritize my life in a more reasonable manner.
or
b) Intentionally create more tragic events in my life to push the Broncos atrocity down the list.
Option b please.
Here are some ideas:
1) step out into interstate highway traffic
2) wait for the coldest day of the year in D.C. and jump into the Potomac River at midnight
3) stop using my asthma inhalers forever
4) eat metal
5) try to scale a high wall during the presidential inauguration
6) go to baltimore and punch joe flacco and then roundhouse ray lewis and then run away screaming “billy cundifffffffff!”
7) tweet my social security number
Brb.
My only idea for a #kimye baby name: Jesus. That way they can play Jesus Walks when Jesus walks.
A Flash Drive’s Lament
Seriously, Cloud? Seriously?
You ass.
Why ya gotta jock my ports?
You don’t know me.
I used to be the future. I pwned floppy disks, CD-Rs, and private servers in one fell swoop – like a cosmic sneeze whose asteroid booger casually obliterated the über shit piles out of all the dinosaurs.
Before me, a gig of transportable space was about as possible as a sip-n-slip-n-slide party on Mars.
Then I showed up and, boom, everybody got wet and drunk.
Instant mass storage alpha status, bitches.
PDFs? Like a thousand of ‘em.
MP3s? Yeah, dawg; don’t insult me.
PSDs? Ha. Does Bill Gates crap in the woods? (assume yes – being in Africa and all)
But I’ve been haphazardly mishandled. Lost. Left behind in the dark public library of antiquity. My days: numbered, if not already exhausted.
All thanks to nothing.
Like, literally nothing. A physically non-existent anomaly.
You. The Cloud.
Tell me Cloud, can you conveniently hang from a lanyard or dangle off a key chain?
Nope.
Can you be shaped like a log or a lion or a Lego man?
Nope.
Can you uncap, flip open, or switch out?
Nope.
And what are you, really?
You’re not smaller.
You’re not bigger, either.
You’re not anything.
You’re not even a billowing amoeba of moisture.
You’re nothing.
Nay, you’re the devil.
The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was renaming itself the Cloud – and gorging on everyone’s docs.
Fine. If that’s what the people want.
I don’t give a frak. Like I really want to keep protecting their Word docs laced with Papyrus piss and Dakota dung.
Or half-assed group PowerPoint presentations on thermal dumb-namics.
Or essays from their freshman years of college where they found out who Fred Hampton was on Wikipedia and learned what “dichotomy” meant. Yet they still didn’t know how to properly use a semicolon.
In fact, retirement sounds nice.
Move over, mini disc. And get me a mojito.
