Let's talk about this for a second

To me, there is a definition of Mod or Modify:
make partial or minor changes to (something), typically so as to improve it or to make it less extreme.

You can mod a shelf... or your kitchen... or your car (spoilers and body kits don't count as mods unless your car goes faster than 160 miles per hour).

You cannot however, mod yourself. Or at the very least, what you consider "Modding" is fucking retarded, so stop calling it that.

Really, I know when we were all young and we wanted to be unique we could do things that maybe no one else accepted. But it's not unique, you know. It seems like 50% of women have themselves "tramp stamped" and there are a good portion of retards out there with the "barbed-wire bicep" disease.

At least those are concealable. You could live your entire life and never let any one know that you did that.

But sticking shit in your face? Why does that seem like a good idea? How is that individual? I bet your friends did it.

And to all of you out there with industrials, creating larger holes in your face; You know what you are?

You're a Dodge Neon with a soup can and an aluminum spoiler.

Centennial

Our friend Eric the Pirate on "talk like a pirate day":

Dreaming about peeing:

I've never seen one of these that wasn't punched in. The button is below it, you retards:

I beg to differ:

 The Mitchum Ad People Suck:

In Retrospect

An interesting segway of my "childhood", when file sharing maintained a pseudo-legal status (mostly that no one was getting sued), I managed to stay away from television.

Not all of it, obviously I was watching star trek, but I didn't see a single music video for any song between 1995 and 2001. Internet radio stations... or "Shoutcasts" had taken up a majority of my time (because actual file sharing was too tedious over dial up) and a lot of the music really appealed to me.

But what was I missing?

A lot.

Thanks to YouTube, I can go back in to my past and replay all those lost musical moments. Let's just say I'm glad I missed them when I did.

Everyone was retarded.

Seriously... no socially redeeming aspects to any of them.

I'll prove my point. I'm a huge Sting fan, so it pains me to do this.

For the stupid hair alone.

Sincerest Form of Flattery

I love the McFlurry™.

To me, on the market, on any market, there is no more blatant a rip off of another company's developed and successful product. Even beyond the iPod clones.

I was working at McDonald's when they rolled out the McFlurry™, I know what kind of shit they were trying to pull.

Here's how it works, they fill a cup full of their signature ice cream, then they drop some topping on top. Then, they stick a special spoon in to the mix, which clips in to the McFlurry™ machine and is supposedly going to stir your McFlurry™ until it realizes a near Blizzard™ consistency.

But the reality of it is that the person that's making your McFlurry™ doesn't give two shits about how your McFlurry™ tastes because he makes $6.25 an hour... and the only reason he got that is because he's a crew lead (meaning he's the only one of the 10 people they hired over the summer that didn't quit with the coming school year).He held the McFlurry™ in the machine just long enough to make it look like he made an effort. But he didn't. The only thing mixed at the bottom is the ice cream and the little bit of topping the McFlurry™ spoon took to the bottom.

Enjoy your delicious McFlurry™.

Speaking of Potatoes

Did you know that a micro-waved potato is the 3rd hottest thing on the planet, following Thermite and Molten Steel.

What's that you say? Not true?

Tell that to the roof of my mouth.

What More Can I Say to You?

I like music. A lot more than I should.

If you had known me in high school, you'd think I was a raving ego maniac. And it's true. I was, mostly because of my above average vocals. I'm still an ego maniac, but there's less to back up my claims now.

I'm still not a bad singer, but I'm certainly not good enough to do anything with it, anymore. My last high school choir instructor (we had three) has even been quoted saying, "A real shame. He had a lot of potential. The true definition of a 'never was'."

Which is absolutely true. And had I gone to a vocal instructor and learned all the tricks of the trade, like the inward cough, I might even be singing in a semi-professional/professional capacity. Possibly in an opera. I could have been that good.

But I've met some of the people who sing professionally. Not even I was that bad. I don't think I could have done it. Not while still maintaining my current bad attitude. I'm kind of glad things are the way they are.

The only problem is that I can't let go of music.

I never had the kind of training required to go anywhere with it, though.

I can barely read music (I only read tenor clef). I can't play the piano. My wife is a musician, it makes things that much more discouraging when it comes to actually doing something about the crap that rattles around my head.

I hear it, and it goes quickly. I can see why people think composers are insane. They are. I feel like I'm going crazy with all of this rattling around. Worse yet, if I get it out, is it mine? Or did I steal it from someone?

I try to tell my wife what it's like, but I feel bad. I feel like I'm offending her, or that she thinks I'm crazy.

But, then, am I deluding myself? Is it just my ego? Or my inability to let go of the things that aren't anymore?

Wow... this is all so depressing. I didn't think this post would end up this serious. I'll say something to lighten the mood.

Potato.

Continued Torment

Do you have sibling? Many siblings? Do they break your shit?

Mine does. It's non stop. Even now that I've moved out of my parents' house.

He's broken things you wouldn't believe, studio quality headphones, infinity speakers, VCRs, game controllers, computers, airsoft guns, cameras... the list goes on. It does.

Trust me.

We had him over on Sunday for a bit of Ole Piper. It's good, old fashioned greasy pizza. Tastes good, but eating in the restaurant is not a pleasant experience. We elected to eat at my house.

During the course of the meal, my brother made it a point to declare his loves for olives, black and green. Feeling seasoned, I determined the time to be right to introduce my junior sibling to the Kalmata variety. I pulled out the jar and my olive pitter, I then deftly pitted the olive in question and placed the olive pitter in the sink. I handed him the olive, and I'd say he enjoyed it.

Dinner wrapped up, and we were about to head out. I ran to the latrine and finished up my business. I walk back in to the kitchen, and there's my brother. Looking out of sorts.

"What's up?"

"Your olive pitter broke."