A picket to Titsburgh, please.

Curiosity once demanded that I travel to Carnegie Mellon to watch their automatics department stage a soccer game between two packs of warring and ferocious robot dogs. It was interesting. However, they were also outfitting Segways with cameras to play soccer with/against humans. Obviously, it was terrifying given that DARPA will happily replace “play soccer” with “hunt down, exterminate, render biomass for fuel and replace their cold metallic handles with fleshy hands” within the year.

The trip required a trip to the through the Pittsburgh International airport. They have a Franco Harris/Immaculate Reception statue in the terminal. And there are vast unoccupied stretches where you can sit for 3 hours and only occasionally here the irregular clack of someone’s broken suitcase wheel. But they also have a Gap and Brooks Brothers behind the security gates that don’t mark up their prices like this $11 Quizznos sub I just forced down my gullet.

And there is a Brookstone. Brookstone used to be the best store in the mall because their wares seemed to be sent from 6-months into the future. Not impossible things, but just a little sleeker than the version out there at your suburban Zayre retail store. Now it’s nothing more than a tumbled-down, terrestrial SkyMall.

Last time I came through the Pittsburg airport, the Brookstone had the massage chairs out front and were inviting weary travelers to enjoy they kneading coils. Today, they’re in the back and you need to sit through an employees pitch before you sit down.

Sir, it snowing and I’ve been in this airport for 10 hours. Please start my goddamn $3599 massage and leave me alone.

No Joy

There is no more room in the house. The kitchen cupboards don’t close. The laundry is in a perpetual cycle of never making it into the drawers before the articles are worn and then put back into the dirty laundry. The cabinet on the wine rack spontaneously bursts open and not awesomely because we have so much wine but pathetically because it’s stuffed with napkins for a party we will never have. Old CDs are stored in the trunk of a car that serves less as a mode of transportation and more as test subject for the Insurance Institute of Highway Safety.

But change is coming. Goodwill has already received a massive donation of books and men’s clothing. And the G keeps claiming she’s going to blow out her closet and toss all her Exile in Guyville era outfits in the garbage. No longer will the last place we look for our winter coats be the coat closet because we are afraid to open the door lest an Emmy falls on our heads.

There is a sad note, however. It goes “bwwwerrrthpp.” The collection wasn’t extensive, but all my old Sports Illustrated Swim Suit issues have been trashed. And that one Playboy. So long nekkid ladies. May the hobos enjoy your glossy pages.



The loss isn’t too terrible since the internet still exists and every one of those images could recaptured with a click of the mouse. But I feel bad for the future friends of any kids we may have. They’ll never be able to find my old porn collection in the basement or attic or anywhere. Now they’re going to go have to hang out with Avent’s second kid and go through his giant cache.

Bwwwerrrthpp.

some kind of pun about autoerotic asphyxiation but i'm not that smart anymore because of shit like this happening all the time, so you figure it out

- what are the chances that you get hit 6 separate times driving the same car in a span of, I dunno, 3 years?

- what are the chances you get rear ended at a red light on your way to the bodyshop to have aforementioned car fixed from a separate accident that had occurred three days earlier?

- do you have any cars you'd recommend purchasing?

BLT Update!

Because I know a guy...



Real exclusive video of real bears and real tigers chumming it up with real lions.

i'm inventing a blahg!

new blog invention:

i want to track all the invitations I receive from elder female relatives on the ol' FB to find missing children/have a virtual hug/support breast cancer awareness/help them find a lost farm animal/hang out with the mafia.

I will also include the daily phone conversations I have with my mother when she asks how to tag people in photos and/or why she can't read my "wall."

i will post on this new invention 30000 times a day.

that horse is eating my cake.

So Matto is all hyped up about bears and lions and tigers sharing those BFF necklaces that are shaped like hearts and split apart but let's talk more about all the other insanely awesome photos on Noah's Ark's flickr feed. She linked to a few but let's discuss, for instance:

- The zebra is named "Evidence." Holy crap.

- A mass of dog butts greets you.

- The horse is eating Little Debbie Snackcakes. Neither of us can really get over this I guess.

- ! ! !

- Salad? Yes.

- THE GOAT AND GERMAN SHEPERD ARE IN THE KITCHEN. Probably making dinner for everyone.

- Also Evidence likes chillin in the backseat with his college bros even though he called shotgun first and that is unfair.

- Now you will die of cute.

- And, finally: my favorite.


Basically I want these people to adopt me. I spent most of my latenight computer allowance yesterday sending everyone freaked out IMs with Flickr links. I apologize for that. Actually, no I don't.

plus, shatner

The wikipedia entry for "Rescue 911" lists all the episodes where people died instead of lived. Only 16 episodes! Man that really was a feel good show.

Also: in 1994, Premier Technologies (trade-name: Gottlieb), released a Rescue 911 pinball machine. It featured a helicopter that magnetically captured the ball as well as a red revolving light on the backbox.

It's things like this that really make my mornings bearable. Internet, you and I are going places.