I made this photographic flipbook at work. It's one of the many, many upsides of working a weekend in an empty building.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JaowKP7uiyw&fmt=18
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JaowKP7uiyw&fmt=18
6/12/08
5/23/08
Spicy hot schmidt
Okay. Sorry. I'm super sorry that I haven't written in my blog for a super long time. Yeah, right.
I'm super sorry that I'm raking in TONS of money, instead of sitting around, thinking of ways to keep everyone from killing themselves, because that's WAY more fun.
See, I don't know if y'all heard, but I'm pretty hot shit these days. Like, boiling toilet water hot shit, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. I have responsibilities--to myself and to my employer.
Who is my employer, my benefactor, my sugar daddy? Well, I don't think it's appropriate to give you a specific name (I'm professional that way), but let it be said that I'm now employed by the billing department of a VERY large insurance company. I mean, I have my own office.
My office is approximately is approximately 8' x 8' (do the math, that's 64 big square feet of floor space, ladies), and it has the convenient feature of having walls short enough for me to see over. Try sneaking up on me. You can't, unless you try it when I'm sitting down, or if you come from behind.
What do I do here (besides write in The Chesterton Review at 11:23 am?) Well, that's a little more complicated. Ostensibly, I bill people for insurance--that's how it shows up on paper anyway. However, I don't believe that they would have hired anyone who talked as much about poison making in his interview as I did to simply bill the sort of jerk who wants insurance. So I try to concentrate more on brainstorming new types of poison (e.g. "Very Berry"), and work on billing as a secondary activity.
This is how the world changes people.
Ways to keep from killing yourself:
1) Duct tape oven mitts over your hands (you'll need the help of a friend, if you have any)
2) Sleeping pills (not too many, mind you, but just try killing yourself in your sleep.)
3) Money. Rich people don't kill themselves. Fact. Google it.
4) A Kevlar body suit. Buy one, wear it all the time.
5) Always ask yourself, "Am I trying to kill myself right now?" If you find that the answer is "yes," stop what you're doing. Just freeze. Unless you're trying to freeze yourself to death, then go do something warmer, and ask yourself the question again in a little bit.
I'm super sorry that I'm raking in TONS of money, instead of sitting around, thinking of ways to keep everyone from killing themselves, because that's WAY more fun.
See, I don't know if y'all heard, but I'm pretty hot shit these days. Like, boiling toilet water hot shit, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. I have responsibilities--to myself and to my employer.
Who is my employer, my benefactor, my sugar daddy? Well, I don't think it's appropriate to give you a specific name (I'm professional that way), but let it be said that I'm now employed by the billing department of a VERY large insurance company. I mean, I have my own office.
My office is approximately is approximately 8' x 8' (do the math, that's 64 big square feet of floor space, ladies), and it has the convenient feature of having walls short enough for me to see over. Try sneaking up on me. You can't, unless you try it when I'm sitting down, or if you come from behind.
What do I do here (besides write in The Chesterton Review at 11:23 am?) Well, that's a little more complicated. Ostensibly, I bill people for insurance--that's how it shows up on paper anyway. However, I don't believe that they would have hired anyone who talked as much about poison making in his interview as I did to simply bill the sort of jerk who wants insurance. So I try to concentrate more on brainstorming new types of poison (e.g. "Very Berry"), and work on billing as a secondary activity.
This is how the world changes people.
Ways to keep from killing yourself:
1) Duct tape oven mitts over your hands (you'll need the help of a friend, if you have any)
2) Sleeping pills (not too many, mind you, but just try killing yourself in your sleep.)
3) Money. Rich people don't kill themselves. Fact. Google it.
4) A Kevlar body suit. Buy one, wear it all the time.
5) Always ask yourself, "Am I trying to kill myself right now?" If you find that the answer is "yes," stop what you're doing. Just freeze. Unless you're trying to freeze yourself to death, then go do something warmer, and ask yourself the question again in a little bit.
2/7/08
How do I get these naked pictures of myself off my phone?!?!
Jiminy Christmas! For Cupcake's Sake!
How do I get these damn naked pictures of me off my cell phone? I'm going crazy here! I tell you, I'm finally beginning to understand karma. I skip church just once, again, and all of a sudden something like this happens.
I know how this stuff works, by the way. It happens all the time - like me, celebrities will, for some entirely innocent reason, get a couple of naked pictures of themselves on their phones, and before you know it the pictures get leaked to the tabloids, and, well . . look at Britney. So I'm going to lay it on the line, and just let y'all know what the deal is, before some newspaperman tries to drag me through the mud (not literally - just imagine the pictures of that!).
It all started when I was trying to figure out what the back of my head looks like. No, actually it all started when I accidentally took a picture of my right eyeball, inadvertently discovering that my phone was also a camera. But not long after that I was trying to take a picture of the back of my head. It worked. The picture wasn't very interesting, but it worked. So then I decided to see what I looked like sitting in a chair, reading a book. It was kind of hard to hold the book and the phone, but that kind of worked too. Then I wanted to see what I looked like crawling out from under my own bed. I looked pretty good doing that, actually, and I wanted to find out what I'd look like doing the same thing naked. No big deal, you know? And that just lead to a whole series of experiments . . . What I look like climbing my bookshelf naked, what I look like pointing at the wall naked, what I look like talking on the phone naked (I had to use a mirror). Anyhoo, I was at it all day. Then I fell asleep and pretty much forgot about the whole thing.
Well, long story short, here I am, a month later, trying to find where I stored the number for Dairy Queen. And I found something, but it had nothing to do with cool eats: almost two hundred and fifty hundred naked pictures of myself. I tried to delete them, but-you know me, a regular troglodyte-it never worked out. Now, whenever my mother calls a picture of me jumping on my bed - naked - comes up. And my mom calls me all the time!
I'm at my wits' end! Sweet Mother of Fudge! I think I just have to get a new phone. But what should I do with this old one? Bury it? Mail it back to the company?
I just hope this has been a lesson to everyone. Don't let history repeat itself.
How do I get these damn naked pictures of me off my cell phone? I'm going crazy here! I tell you, I'm finally beginning to understand karma. I skip church just once, again, and all of a sudden something like this happens.
I know how this stuff works, by the way. It happens all the time - like me, celebrities will, for some entirely innocent reason, get a couple of naked pictures of themselves on their phones, and before you know it the pictures get leaked to the tabloids, and, well . . look at Britney. So I'm going to lay it on the line, and just let y'all know what the deal is, before some newspaperman tries to drag me through the mud (not literally - just imagine the pictures of that!).
It all started when I was trying to figure out what the back of my head looks like. No, actually it all started when I accidentally took a picture of my right eyeball, inadvertently discovering that my phone was also a camera. But not long after that I was trying to take a picture of the back of my head. It worked. The picture wasn't very interesting, but it worked. So then I decided to see what I looked like sitting in a chair, reading a book. It was kind of hard to hold the book and the phone, but that kind of worked too. Then I wanted to see what I looked like crawling out from under my own bed. I looked pretty good doing that, actually, and I wanted to find out what I'd look like doing the same thing naked. No big deal, you know? And that just lead to a whole series of experiments . . . What I look like climbing my bookshelf naked, what I look like pointing at the wall naked, what I look like talking on the phone naked (I had to use a mirror). Anyhoo, I was at it all day. Then I fell asleep and pretty much forgot about the whole thing.
Well, long story short, here I am, a month later, trying to find where I stored the number for Dairy Queen. And I found something, but it had nothing to do with cool eats: almost two hundred and fifty hundred naked pictures of myself. I tried to delete them, but-you know me, a regular troglodyte-it never worked out. Now, whenever my mother calls a picture of me jumping on my bed - naked - comes up. And my mom calls me all the time!
I'm at my wits' end! Sweet Mother of Fudge! I think I just have to get a new phone. But what should I do with this old one? Bury it? Mail it back to the company?
I just hope this has been a lesson to everyone. Don't let history repeat itself.
12/26/07
Buckle up for Vatican III, jerkwads, Dread Night is here!
There's a new holiday in town, friends and enemies, and you already missed it.
First off, I don't want to hear any "Dandy come lately"s out of anyone. I didn't let you know about the holiday before because I was testing it out still. If everyone starts celebrating a new holiday before all the kinks are worked out, you end up with crappy holidays. How do you think we ended up with Valentine's Day and Pap Smear Weekend? Right, someone jumped the gun, and now we're stuck with gifts in February and two days of mandatory, gender-irrelevant pap smears. I'm not looking forward to that again.
No worries about this new one, though, because it proved to be a real doozy. I think people will be moaning and whimpering for generations to come, every time Dread Night rolls around.
What is Dread Night, exactly? Well, I'm glad you asked. You're familiar with "Christmas Eve," correct? It's technically not even a holiday, and yet there it sits every year, wasting a whole day before Christmas. Dread Night will replace Christmas Eve, replace it so fully and ruthlessly that not only will you be unable to remember Christmas Eve, but to attempt to do so will cause you great pain.
Dread Night, one of the longest nights of the year, I'll remind you, will be an annual period of hope, prayer, and, above all else, fear. What could one possibly fear? What would you pray for, with wonderful Christmas morning right around the corner? Survival. Survival, salvation, preservation from bodily harm - the works. You see, on Dread Night there is no certainty that Christmas morning will come. In fact, just the opposite - in the depths of Dread Night, we will suspect that the chances of the sun ever rising again are much slimmer than the possibility of the alternative. And so, on Dread Night, we sit. We sit in the dark, and we rub our cold hands together, and we rock back and forth, wondering what is to become of us and the world, hoping that the Baby Jesus will see fit to return the next day to save our miserable selves. But he may not. He probably won't. If only the some random trick of the cosmos might convince him to pity us, if some grace of soulless Fate might allow us one more year...
But Dread Night is five full chambers in a revolver.
And should the sun finally rise in our black and dilated eyes... imagine the relief! Christmas is pretty great as it is, but, after Dread Night, Jesus Morning will be water in the desert, junk in the syringe.
I introduced Dread Night to a test audience on Monday. It was a little difficult at first to get the point across, but once the idea got into their heads, I could see it start to take hold almost immediately. They started to get nervous, and no one wanted to make eye contact. These are good signs.
It's going to take some effort to get people to shake the habit of enjoying themselves on the night before Christmas, but Dread Night can do it. You just need some fear and stomach curdling angst. That's what Dread Night is, after all.
First off, I don't want to hear any "Dandy come lately"s out of anyone. I didn't let you know about the holiday before because I was testing it out still. If everyone starts celebrating a new holiday before all the kinks are worked out, you end up with crappy holidays. How do you think we ended up with Valentine's Day and Pap Smear Weekend? Right, someone jumped the gun, and now we're stuck with gifts in February and two days of mandatory, gender-irrelevant pap smears. I'm not looking forward to that again.
No worries about this new one, though, because it proved to be a real doozy. I think people will be moaning and whimpering for generations to come, every time Dread Night rolls around.
What is Dread Night, exactly? Well, I'm glad you asked. You're familiar with "Christmas Eve," correct? It's technically not even a holiday, and yet there it sits every year, wasting a whole day before Christmas. Dread Night will replace Christmas Eve, replace it so fully and ruthlessly that not only will you be unable to remember Christmas Eve, but to attempt to do so will cause you great pain.
Dread Night, one of the longest nights of the year, I'll remind you, will be an annual period of hope, prayer, and, above all else, fear. What could one possibly fear? What would you pray for, with wonderful Christmas morning right around the corner? Survival. Survival, salvation, preservation from bodily harm - the works. You see, on Dread Night there is no certainty that Christmas morning will come. In fact, just the opposite - in the depths of Dread Night, we will suspect that the chances of the sun ever rising again are much slimmer than the possibility of the alternative. And so, on Dread Night, we sit. We sit in the dark, and we rub our cold hands together, and we rock back and forth, wondering what is to become of us and the world, hoping that the Baby Jesus will see fit to return the next day to save our miserable selves. But he may not. He probably won't. If only the some random trick of the cosmos might convince him to pity us, if some grace of soulless Fate might allow us one more year...
But Dread Night is five full chambers in a revolver.
And should the sun finally rise in our black and dilated eyes... imagine the relief! Christmas is pretty great as it is, but, after Dread Night, Jesus Morning will be water in the desert, junk in the syringe.
I introduced Dread Night to a test audience on Monday. It was a little difficult at first to get the point across, but once the idea got into their heads, I could see it start to take hold almost immediately. They started to get nervous, and no one wanted to make eye contact. These are good signs.
It's going to take some effort to get people to shake the habit of enjoying themselves on the night before Christmas, but Dread Night can do it. You just need some fear and stomach curdling angst. That's what Dread Night is, after all.
12/12/07
Oooookay, queers, fess up.
Well, I won't say that I blame you, but there are clearly some things that some people need to get out in the open.
Oh, you you don't know what I'm talking about? Sure you don't. Fine. Fine. I'll "explain."
When I signed on to the Myspace today, I noticed a notice on my space saying that 9 people on my friends list have crushes on me, and that I should click to find out who.
I wasn't sure exactly what was meant by "click," so I did some sleuthing of my own. Just call me Gumshoe. Some simple computer hacking revealed that I have 13 friends. I then had my guy do some background checks, and it turns out that 8 of my friends are men or boys, 4 are "girls," and 1 person isn't a person at all (I'm still not sure how it got on there).
Now, some of you may need computers to help process this next piece (I was able to do it with just a calculator, but then again I'm the detective), but if you look at all the numbers here (9, 13, 8, 4, and 1) it quickly becomes apparent that at least 5 of my boy friends have crushes on me, assuming that the non-person can't have a crush. Check the numbers, run them through your computers, have your guy take a look at them - however you stack it, things aren't adding up here.
So what gives? If you're, like, gay, that's fine, but yous should probably make that more clear. And we won't be standing next to each other if we ever hang out again, because I don't want to act like I'm leading you on. And if you're straight (not gay), do your girlfriends know about this? It's weird if they don't, but if they do... Do you make them wear Dandy masks to bed, or what? This is all so strange. Is it possible that the girls each have multiple crushes on me? I've heard of "multiple crushes" (they come up in Cosmo occastionally) but I never thought people actually had them.
Ugh. I just don't know. From here on out, all crushes are officially off. I don't care if you're gay, or a girl, or whatever. The only person allowed to have a crush on Dandy Chesterton is Dandy Chesterton (I mean "me," not any other Dandy Chestertons there might be out there). And if your girlfriends have any Dandy masks, please force them (the girls) to destroy them (the masks).
Actually, no. Give the masks to me.
Oh, you you don't know what I'm talking about? Sure you don't. Fine. Fine. I'll "explain."
When I signed on to the Myspace today, I noticed a notice on my space saying that 9 people on my friends list have crushes on me, and that I should click to find out who.
I wasn't sure exactly what was meant by "click," so I did some sleuthing of my own. Just call me Gumshoe. Some simple computer hacking revealed that I have 13 friends. I then had my guy do some background checks, and it turns out that 8 of my friends are men or boys, 4 are "girls," and 1 person isn't a person at all (I'm still not sure how it got on there).
Now, some of you may need computers to help process this next piece (I was able to do it with just a calculator, but then again I'm the detective), but if you look at all the numbers here (9, 13, 8, 4, and 1) it quickly becomes apparent that at least 5 of my boy friends have crushes on me, assuming that the non-person can't have a crush. Check the numbers, run them through your computers, have your guy take a look at them - however you stack it, things aren't adding up here.
So what gives? If you're, like, gay, that's fine, but yous should probably make that more clear. And we won't be standing next to each other if we ever hang out again, because I don't want to act like I'm leading you on. And if you're straight (not gay), do your girlfriends know about this? It's weird if they don't, but if they do... Do you make them wear Dandy masks to bed, or what? This is all so strange. Is it possible that the girls each have multiple crushes on me? I've heard of "multiple crushes" (they come up in Cosmo occastionally) but I never thought people actually had them.
Ugh. I just don't know. From here on out, all crushes are officially off. I don't care if you're gay, or a girl, or whatever. The only person allowed to have a crush on Dandy Chesterton is Dandy Chesterton (I mean "me," not any other Dandy Chestertons there might be out there). And if your girlfriends have any Dandy masks, please force them (the girls) to destroy them (the masks).
Actually, no. Give the masks to me.
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