Tag: links

You’re an attractive, successful man who seems to have a lot going for him. But let’s say that your dating life is kind of slow, you’re not getting as much action as you used to, and all the women your age want to get married. What if you were to launch a Web campaign offering$10K to the person who finds you a wife? My guess is that you’d never sleep lonely again, my friend. Ah, romance. I can almost hear the violins.

(via adnan)

12:23 p.m.

Gratuitous Blogger/Web Techniques Plug: Have I mentioned I love my job, and my boss? The magazine I work for just donated a new server to Blogger, the exceptional and free service I use to update my page. Here’s the announcement from the Blogger home page:

Woohoo! Remember I mentioned there would be more good news about the Server Fund? It’s this: on top of the huge contributions you all made, WebTechniques magazine bought us another server. That brings our total Server Fund contributions over $15,000 and gives us enough fire power to last a long time — or enough to hurt ourselves, we’ll see.
Here’s the official press release. Yay! WebTechniques rocks.

-Ev. [1/23/2001 10:43:23 AM]

10:58 a.m.

The best headlines from this month’s Martha Stuart Living:

  • Collecting Pincushions
  • Remembering Brioche
  • Finger-Puppet Master
  • Crocus: A little flower packed with big surprises.
  • President’s Day Pretzel Log Cabin

10:19 a.m.

After you’ve had your aura cleaned, consider having your ass read. You send Jaqueline “a fanny gram,” she tells you what your buttprint says about your soul. Well, at least now you have an excuse when your boss catches you perched on top of the photocopier. (Click on the “rumpology” button in the upper left corner.)

3:14 p.m.

This is creepy Web art. Childlike drawings with hostile-man score. If you’re at work, bust out the headphones before you click.

12:36 a.m.

EMAIL MOMENT!

Subject: College friend reminisces about his youth.

Excerpt:

My mother would frequently record tape cassettes and send
them to my grandparents, uncles and aunts, et al. to
mark our progress (this was before the invention of
the motion-picture camera). On one these tapes, my
mother tells me “stop that” seventy-eight times in a
matter of fifteen minutes. One of my favorite lines is
when she yells, “you better NOT pee on the couch.”

9:55 a.m.

Amazing article about an abandoned National Security Association spy station.

5:20 p.m.

My friend Sam blogged about a bumper sticker he saw that said, “Shake Your Ass for Jesus.” That’s fairly in line with my personal philosopy, which is that Jesus is a big fan of joyous booty motion.

2:44 p.m.

I cut this out of Newsweek a few years ago, and just came across it again:

“A mistake was made by a junior staffer who is no longer with the campaign.”

Dole for president deputy press secretary Christina Martin, on a letter Washington DC resident Irv Rastin received thanking him for his contribution, which began “Dear Cheetoh Breath”

9:49 a.m.

Today’s not-good thing:

My fly has been open for several hours. My pants are tan. My underwear is red.

5:03 p.m.

Thanks to this what-happened-on-your-birthday-type site, I now know that the first shipment of fresh oysters came overland from Baltimore on the day I was born. Well, about a kazillion years before I was born on that day, but still. Crucial.

12:57 p.m.

This is a seven-year-old body builder. I’ve been there once, I’m never, ever going there again.

10:42 a.m.

This is a calendar featuring women with beards. Friends, family members: if you have a birthday in January, you know what you’ll be getting from me.

2:15 p.m.

I’m wearing a new lemon perfume, and a friend told me I “smell like dish soap.” In guy-speak that means, “I want to rip your clothes off with my teeth.”

12:21 p.m.

I booked tickets to Indonesia yesterday because my life is rad. The only problem is, I’m terrified of the vaccinations. I know no one likes needles, but I don’t like them more. One of the most embarrassing things I’ve ever done involved a blood test when I was 14.

In the waiting room I swallowed repeatedly trying to conquer the excessive panic-saliva. When they tried to take me into the room, I grabbed either side of the doorjamb. It took three men to pry me off and hold me down while they drew my blood. My mom was stunned and mortified. “I can’t believe this, you’re practically a grown woman! What are you doing? This is really out of character, I’m so sorry. This is really out of character.” To this day, I have no idea what I was thinking, I guess it hadn’t occurred to me that they’d fight me.

So, yeah. The vaccinations will be a highlight.

10:45 a.m.

It’s time for my very own personalized action figure. For $250 I could have a mini Mighty Girl with a tiny little cape and tiny white go-go boots. That’s some serious first-world livin’.

3:51 p.m.

As I was rummaging for breakfast this morning, the cupcakes on my counter started to look suspiciously muffinlike. I had an internal debate: Muffin? Oatmeal? Muffin? Oatmeal? Then the inevitable self-reprimand: “MAGGIE. Muffins do not have sprinkles.”

9:52 a.m.

My friend Katy is 5’2″, beautiful, and blessed with a tangle of curly black hair. I spent New Year’s Eve with her, and every ten minutes or so a new guy noticed her:

“Awwww, I like ’em petite!”

“Ooo. I’ve had wet dreams about that hair.”

“Hello there, little girl. Wanna sit on my lap?”

Like she was going to saunter up, plop down on his lap, and wrap her legs around him. “Oh, Romeo. Don’t be so coy. (Insert bubbling laughter.)” Glah! By the end of the night I felt like my brain needed a shower, and none of it was even directed at me.

2:32 p.m.

My friend Sam is leaving San Francisco, and he made some good points in his farewell note. Another one bites the dust:

WHEREAS, despite the greatly-exaggerated demise of the New Economy,
housing prices in San Francisco are still the second-highest in the world,
and

WHEREAS the Bay Area is swimming in cultural events which are all
within driving distance, but which lack parking anywhere within the same zip
code, and

WHEREAS we spend over two hours commuting each day, and

WHEREAS we and two cats would like to move in together and have a
front porch for something under $1000 a month, and

WHEREAS it might be nice to purchase a house within the next five
years without a Tokyo-style mortgage, and

WE THE UNDERSIGNED (to wit, my girlfriend and I) do hereby declare:

YEA, VERILY, we are getting the Duck out of fodge.

12:07 a.m.

Oooh Virtual Bubble Wrap. Such satisfying pop-like sounds. Must move hand away from mouse to wipe moronic drool from chin.

10:27 a.m.

Jesus Dress Up is an online paper-doll of Jesus on the cross. Ever so tasteful. (Thank you Mr. Justin.)

1:25 p.m.

EMAIL MOMENT!

Characters: Me and a friend-of-a-friend, who I’d never met outside of email.

Subject: I had just figured out that our common friend was trying to set us up.

Excerpt:

Me: Amy is, of course, trying to set us up. I didn’t
realize that until now, but it’s become apparent. To make this more comfortable all
around, let’s mutually agree that it would never work
between us. We’re just different people. Besides, with
my hideous deformity and your overbearing mother, we’d
only be punishing ourselves.

Him: Wow, a pre-meeting rejection! How progressive and efficient of you. You’re
really going to be kicking yourself when you find out I’m the sole heir to
the substantial Huggies fortune. Not that you’re a shallow gold-digger, of
course, I just find that everyone can always use more diapers.

Me: I try to be cutting edge when it comes to rejection.
Can’t get behind the technology, or suddenly your
apartment is filled with belching morons, grabbing at
their crotches and eating all your Klondike Bars.

10:49 a.m.

Nearly all of Jeff Druzba’s posts are interesting. Then again, he hasn’t been at this too long:

“Morning radio DJ’s are the processed cheese of people. Every Monday it’s the same, “Oh ya hate
to get outta bed this mornin’ but ya grab yer cup-a-joe and start the week off right.” Then, every
Wednesday they’re out there with “It’s hump day” and “Here’s hoping the week is almost over.” And,
every Friday, you’ve got your “TGIF baby, let’s part-ay!”

When I was at a younger awkward age, I used to hear them say “hump day” on the radio and I thought
it was some kind of adult joke I didn’t get. I knew that humping was what the big dog up the street did
to your leg if you dared enter his tethered neck radius and it seemed odd to me that they would talk
about something like that on the radio. The usage of “hump” meaning “middle” is not so obvious.”

9:27 a.m.